Vicious Magick (13 page)

The butler leads Madra and D’kassar into
Slotterhaus’ office. He’s a squat man, and the top of his head is
devoid of hair.

“You! I hear you used to be a Nasonic monk. I
also hear you’re pretty handy with a powderblast,” he says to
D’kassar, “I could really use a ski instructor with those kinds of
skills.”

“And you,” he says, turning his gaze to
Madra, “I bet there’s a job here for you, too.”

They reach the giant stone temple and pound
on the double doors. Inside, Zanther hears strange shouting and
grunting. Novanostrum can hear footsteps on the other side of the
door. They wait for the doors to open.

After three solid minutes, nothing happens.
Zanther pounds on the doors again.

They look at each other, both of them getting
irritated and confused. Zanther tries pulling the door open, only
to find it locked. Novanostrum telekinetically moves the springs
and gears in the lock, trying to force the mechanism open. They
hear a click, and Zanther tries the door again. Again, nothing
happens.

Novanostrum inspects the door handle, the
hinges and the lock.

“Damned thing is welded shut.”

“Guess these guys don’t get out much,”
Zanther says.

“Well, how do we get in?” Novanostrum asks as
they both hear an ear-splitting scream.

“Are we sure we want to?”

Skyships

Skyships were the brainchild of Nardolo di
Medizzo (actually, the skyship was one of his many brainchildren),
created when he tried to throw up into a sack after a white wine
binge, but burped instead. The air made the bag rise and, a few
months later, the first skyship took flight. Over time, the crew of
wino belchers was replaced by more efficient means, and an industry
took shape.

Novanostrum sits a few yards away, puffing at
his pipe and looking over the façade of the building. Zanther has
his ear pressed to the wall, listening to the strange shouting and
grunting inside.

The wall in front of them is solid stone,
flat, and forty feet high. Above that is a small roof, and the next
floor is indented inward five or six feet, in true pagoda fashion.
All told, the building is seven stories high, all stone, and no
windows.

“Can’t you blast a hole in this wall with a
lightning bolt or something?”

“Yeah. They’ll be really eager to help us if
I do that.”

“I mean, they’re just monks. We could
probably rough them up a little. No big deal.”

“Here’s my thinking, Zanther. There are
living people in there, so they’ve got to get food and water and
oxygen, so it’s logical to assume that people go in and out of this
building.”

“You’re saying there must be another door
somewhere. Well, let’s start looking for it.”

“Clearly it’s hidden. There could be a tunnel
through this mountain, or it could be concealed by magick. Rather
than try and cover this whole area inch-by-inch, it might behoove
us to go back to that village and sniff around for
information.”

“That creepy-looking village with the
gingerbread houses? I bet they don’t even have a pub.”

“Zanther, if there is one universal truth
I’ve discovered during my travels, it’s this: there is
always
a pub.”

Compared to the rest of the village, the pub
is an island of normalcy. It resembles a pub in the two most
important ways a pub can be resembled: firstly, it sells alcoholic
drinks, and secondly, and it’s full of drunks. Zanther spends a
minute unwinding his unwieldy scarf and hangs it on a peg. He
strolls over to the bar and plops himself into a seat.

“What’s your drink?”

“I’d like a Mongovian Brain Blaster.”

“Those are my favorite, too. However, we
don’t have those; we don’t have everything you need to make
‘em.”

“Okay, well, how about a Screwdropper?”

“Don’t have those, either.”

“Okay, well, do you have a menu somewhere of
what you
do
have?”

“All we serve is Muscov Gin.”

“So why did you ask me what I wanted?”

“Well, if you said you wanted Muscov Gin, I’d
serve you that.”

“I’ll have a Muscov Gin.”

“Good choice.”

After his third Muscov Gin, Zanther wobbles
on his barstool as Novanostrum takes a seat next to him, rubbing
his red hands together. The bartender, recognizing the robes as
belonging to a high-level wizard, most likely with the ability to
reduce the place to a smoking crater and the potential to produce
large sums of cash, runs over to the two of them.

“Wizard, what’s your drink?”

“Can I get a Mongovian Brain Blaster?”

“Sure thing.”

Zanther gives them both a sour look and sizes
up his fourth Muscov Gin.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Zanth. Did you
have any luck finding out about the temple?”

“Temple…what temple?”

Novanostrum nods, unsurprised. The bartender
brings his drink.