The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

"Not a fair comparison," Michael Manstein put in. "In Ellas the god comes much closer to having a continuous tradition of worship than he would in Angels City, and is likely to be significantly more efficacious. I will be happy to provide documentation to support this assertion."

Phyllis glared at him; no doubt he'd just undercut the example she was going to use. But when Michael says a comparison isn't appropriate, he wSi have evidence to back him up. Fumbling a little, Phyllis talked about Carthage instead (I watched Michael stir in his seat, but he kept quiet).

The real trick, I gathered from what she had to say, was keeping Poseidon happy about getting his hands dirty, so to speak. Some Powers with artificially maintained cults are pathetically eager to do anything at all, as long as they keep their last handful of worshipers. Others have more pride.

Poseidon seemed to be part of the second group.

"But he does do a satisfactory job when properly incentivized?" Bea persisted. Michael visibly flinched when he heard that, but again held his tongue. Bea was a bureaucrat, after all; every so often, she went and talked like one.

That is my impression," Phyllis answered. "Let me remind you: if Vepar were perfectly reliable, we'd have no reason for contemplating a change. And there's the added benefit of increased earthquake protection."

"Or increased earthquake risk, if the deity is angered,"

Michael said. Phyllis glared at him again, but I think he was right to point out the problem. Environmental issues are the most complicated ones this side of theology, and reading the text of the world is often (though not always) more prone to ambiguity than interpreting a sacred scripture.

Bea said. Thank you for the presentation, Phyllis. Do you think you'll be able to give a preliminary recommendation on whether to pursue making this change in, hmm, two weeks' time?"

"May I have three?" Phyllis asked.

Bea scribbled something on her calendar. "Three weeks it is." She looked around at the rest of us. "Does anyone have anything more?" I sat very still, willing silence on everybody around me. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn't Today, to my vast relief, it did; nobody said anything. Bea looked around again, just in case she'd missed someone on her first check. Then she shrugged. Thank you all." That was the signal for us to get up and head for the door as fast as we could without being out-and-out rude. "Oh, and David-" Bea called after me.

Caught! I turned around. "Yes?" I said, as innocently as I could.

"I do hope you'll have more progress to report on your other projects at our next meeting," Bea said.

"I'll do my best," I promised, thinking that if I had fewer projects I could get more done on each of them. I also made a note to myself, not for the first time, that Bea didn't miss much. And, I thought but didn't dare say, I could also get more done if I didn't have to spend dose to half a day every week in staff meeting.

The papers on my desk were starting to create a rampart effect, as if I were going in for trench warfare, d. la the First Sorcerous War. I was just getting ready for a serious assault on them when the phone delivered a sneak attack from the flank.

"Environmental Perfection Agency, David Fisher," I said, hoping the switching imps had misspelled and given me a wrong number.

But they hadn't. 'Inspector Fisher? This is Legate Kawaguchi, of the Angels City Constabulary Department."

I sat up straighter. "What can I do for you. Legate?" I stopped feeling guilty about getting interrupted: after all, the call involved one of the other projects I was working on. Bea would be pleased.

"Can you come up to the Valley substation, please, Inspector?" Kawaguchi said. The scriptorium spirit Erasmus now appears capable of communicating."

I wanted to whoop with glee, right in his ear. I don't know how I stopped myself. "I'm on my way. Legate," I chortled.

The ramparts on my desk would undoubtedly get higher while I was out of the office. So what? I told myself: this is more important.

Which was true, but sooner or later I'd have to catch up with the other stuff anyhow. I tried not to think about that as I hurried toward the slide.

VI

My stomach was making little plaintive grumbles by the time I got up into St. Ferdinand's Valley. Even without too many addenda, Bea's meeting ran long, and Kawaguchi had called before I got a chance to think about lunch. I grabbed a dachshund sausage at the first mom-and-pop joint I came to once I got off the freeway, and I must confess that I walked into the constabulary substation smelling of mustardSome of the people who'd seen me on Sunday looked surprised to find me back again. "What is this, Fisher? You want to move in?" Bomholm the thaumatech called to me. Offhand, I couldn't think of a notion I liked less.