Mebodes' Fly

"Is it indeed? So much the better; if Mebodes is with one of the wenches, he'll hardly be minding his wardspells. Like as not, this is what I saw back in my study."

" 'Affairs', eh? So that's what you meant. Well, all right--now nail the bastard."

"Hush," Rigord said absently. He had lit a small lamp and was heating several strong-smelling potions and liquids over it. Then he poured them one after the other into a small, deep silver bowl. A puff of pungent steam rose from it. Clever Rolf sneezed.

"Hush," Rigord said again. He was chanting now, in Iverian dialect so thick Clever Rolf could hardly follow it. The hair rose on the back of the scribe's neck; he could feel the magical force Rigord was concentrating in that bowl.

The wizard's voice went harsh and deep: "Fiery spirit of the void, I summon thee! Come forth, O salamander; come forth, come forth!" A sphere of coruscating flame rose from the silver bowl. It threw sparks--red, gold, white--into the night. Clever Rolf's mouth fell open in awe.

At Rigord's urging, the salamander slowly floated toward the sporting house. It drifted in through the open second-story window. After a moment of silence, twin screams rang out, one soprano and frightened, the other a baritone roar of outrage that changed in mid-cry to a howl of pain.

"You did it! You did it!" Clever Rolf cried. Exhaustion forgotten, he capered about, hugging himself with glee. "I hope your fireball roasts him like a capon!"

"Then you'll likely be disappointed," Rigord said. "Wizards aren't that easy to kill. But you should be rid of him for a while."

As if to prove him right, Mebodes came diving out of the window by which the salamander had entered. He was a sadly different sorcerer from the one who had terrorized Clever Rolf. Landing in the muddy street with a bone-jarring thump, he got to his feet and ran, the salamander in hot--in both the literal and figurative senses of the word--pursuit. Mebodes would have fled faster had he not had to reach down every couple of strides to haul up his unbuttoned breeches. Each time he did, the salamander scorched his bare backside.

Aila appeared at the window through which Mebodes had crashed. "Serves you right," she shouted at him as he vanished into the night. Then she looked down toward Clever Rolf, who was still cheering in the street below. When she recognized him, she said, "Come on up. You can have this one free, for ridding me of that scoundrel." As she was wearing her working clothes--which is to say, nothing much--the invitation's appeal was immediate and urgent.

"Remember the geas," Rigord called to Clever Rolf, but the scribe's hearing could be very selective when he chose.

Afterward, in the comfort of a well-warmed bed, he gave Aila the whole story (though Viviane, had she heard, would have been furious at how small her role was). Aila giggled when he told how he had used Rigord's covetousness against him. "These wizards, they're not so much," he said grandly.

The candle by the bed lured moths and other insects into the little chamber. For the first time in days, Clever Rolf listened to their flutterings and dronings without a sense of panic. Then one buzzed down to settle on his arm. Aila's face twisted with fear. "Rolf," she quavered, "look at its eyes! That's--that's Mebodes' fly!"

The scribe reached out with a thumb and killed the insect, whose eyes were indeed golden like the wizard's.

Aila stared. "How could you--?"

"Nothing simpler, my sweet." He showed her the dead fly; it had no mouthparts. "For one thing, Rigord told me his spell wasn't finished. But I didn't need Rigord to know that. After all"--he leered at her, his sense of his own quick wit at last completely restored--"didn't you just watch Mebodes running away down the street with his fly undone?"