The light in his eyes changed from petulance to vanity. He flexed his bicep and winked. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I murmured throatily, then turned sideways and gave him a sharp elbow on the point of his jaw. He toppled like a felled hundred-year oak. "That's the spirit, brother!" I cried, then glared at the remaining two bandits. They hurriedly buried their faces in the dirt.
Keeping an eye on my parishioners, I rolled Lomo's unconscious body over, freed Esmeralda from his worn belt, then glanced around for Gerta. She signalled me from the other side of the camp. Fortunately, she'd found the strength to hoist the hymnal merchant over Slasher's saddle like a deer carcass. The confessions were growing ever more hoarse and insignificant. The bandits were now down to episodes of dog kicking and flower trampling; we were almost out of time.
"All right," I said, "enough confessing. It's time for a rousing chorus of-of-" I searched for an appropriate song.
"What about `Oh Come All Ye Druids'?" one tear-stained bandit suggested timorously. "I always find that so uplifting."
"Splendid!" I hauled the newly confessed miscreant to his feet. "I'm appointing you choirmaster. Lead on!"
As off-key strains of the chosen song violated the clear mountain night air, I vaulted into Corpsemaker's saddle. Gerta mounted Slasher behind the merchant's body, then we gave the horses their heads so they could pick their way down the winding rock-strewn trail in the darkness.
Behind us, the abysmal singing went on for a long, long time.
"I thought you two were supposed to be the best!" Dal said the next day, as we began our descent into the kingdom of Damery. His swollen nose was still beet-red and he talked thickly as though he had a cold. "You lost all my stock and didn't kill a single bandit!"
I pulled out the battered hymnal I'd picked up the night before and opened the cover. I squinted, then held it out to him. "Funny, I don't see an Alowey tax stamp anywhere in this book." I pressed the volume to my chest. "Merchant Dal, have you perhaps been dealing with those renegade cut-rate monks down beyond the Brimford frontier? You know, the ones who don't believe in lawful taxes?"
"Of course not!" Dal averted his bloodshot eyes.
"That's good," I said. "Because we all know how King Mytchell the Extremely Picky feels about tax evaders running goods across his border. I believe the last twenty or so were boiled in apple vinegar and then fed to the royal swine."
Dal flushed and stared down at his knotted fingers. "You know, I've been thinking of emigrating across the channel to Doria. The weather is so much better there and the population is known for having perfect pitch, just the place for a hymnal salesman to get ahead."
"Really?" I said. According to Gerta, who'd been born across the channel, Doria was so far north, they thought summer was when it sleeted instead of snowed. "That does sound like a pleasant change."
"What about our fee?" Gerta asked glumly. Golden wisps of hair had escaped her braids, her black eye was swollen shut, and she didn't look nearly as valiant as usual. "No doubt you want a refund."
I leafed through the illicit hymnal, then hummed a few bars of that old standard, "Cairn of Ages, Cleft for Me."
"Keep your fee!" Dal squeaked. "You earned it! I wouldn't dream of asking for a refund!" He swallowed hard. "Can I, um, have my hymnal back?"
"Yeah." I tossed it to him. "I suppose it does have a certain sentimental value."
Dal tore the pages out as we rode and threw them surreptitiously along the trail behind us, but otherwise kept blessedly quiet for the rest of the journey.
Two nights later, we dumped Dal off at the infamous Inn of the Second Wart at the foot of the mountain and then ate freshly roasted piglet out underneath the dazzling sweep of stars.
"Surprising that someone would be so careless about marking their stock," Gerta was saying. "Are you sure that pig wasn't marked?"
Not after I whacked its ears off, I thought. "Not a mark anywhere," I said. I wiped pork grease off my hands, then picked up my poor magicked mail. It was now so small, it fit in the palm of my hand, no bigger than a doll's shirt and shrinking ever more quickly as time went by. At this rate, it would be flea-sized by morning. "I will have to order new mail when we get to town, but at least it won't be because I'm getting old."
Gerta turned over on her back and stared up at the sky. "I'm afraid you are in for a change, though. Surely you've heard that, once you've been magicked, you're much more sensitive to spells and potions and such."
"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "That's just an old wives' tale."
"No, I swear it's true," Gerta said earnestly. "It happened to my cousin, Ernelda. This lovesick dolt in the next village bought a cheap spell and cast it on her. As soon as the wedding was over and she regained her senses, she beat him to a pulp, but now she can't even pass one of those stupid street magicians without feeling obliged to turn cartwheels and sing charming little ditties."
"Gee," I said, "something to look forward to."
"Well," Gerta said as her blue eyes sagged shut, "it did turn out to be a nice source of extra income. People are always throwing coins at her feet these days. I expect you'll get used to it."
And that, I reflected, was the most depressing prospect of all.
About the Authors
For a guy no one's ever heard of, Pierce Askegren has written a fair amount of fiction, for most of which he's gotten paid. He co-wrote a three book series of Spider-Man novels with famous comics guys Fingeroth and Fein, and he wrote two more Marvel novels on his own. He also cranked out five short stories for various Marvel anthologies, and a novel based on the popular Traveller role-playing game. Sometime after the Earth cooled but before the continents moved apart, he wrote stories that nobody remembers for Warren comics magazines-Creepy, the original Vampirella, etc. These days, by day, he writes business proposals and such for government contractors, as well as accepting the occasional technical writing or editing assignment. Pierce lives in northern Virginia in a frighteningly cluttered apartment with about a zillion Godzilla figures to keep him company.
Robin Wayne Bailey is the author of twelve novels, including the Brothers of the Dragon series from Roc Books, Shadowdance, and most recently Swords Against the Shadowland from White Wolf Books. His short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including the popular Thieves World series, Future Net, Space Opera and others. He's been a planetarium lecturer, musician, and martial arts instructor. An avid collector of books and oldtime radio plays, his hobbies also include weight-lifting, bicycling, and soccer. He resides in Kansas City, Missouri, with his wife, Diana, and their cat, Topper. Stories like "A Case of Prince Charming" represent the more harmless manifestations of his twisted sense of humor. Ask the editor.
Margaret Ball lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband and two children. She has a B.A. in mathematics and a Ph.D. in linguistics from the University of Texas. After graduation, she taught at UCLA and then spent several years developing her fantasy writing skills by designing computer software and writing proposals for defense department contracts.
After obtaining a degree in wildlife illustration and environmental education, Doranna Durgin spent a number of years deep in the Appalachian Mountains. When she emerged, it was as a writer who found herself irrevocably tied to the natural world and its creatures (which would explain the skull collection and all those unusual home-tanned skins). Doranna has a handful of fantasy novels out and four more in production, along with a smattering of anthology stories. She lives with two irrepressible Cardigan Welsh Corgis, Carbon Unit (Kacey) & Jean-Luc Picardigan. And if that's not entirely too much information already, go to www.doranna.net for all the latest news.