“Aren’t you having any?” asked Juan.
“I’m the designated mailer. As soon as we are ready I will take these down to the post office. Ain’t it cool?”
“My heart is beating like a kettle drum. I am so excited.” Sweat hung in big drops on Juan’s light brown forehead. He smelled funny—a sort of metallic smell. Steve assumed that it wasn’t exactly the sweet smell of success.
“It’s that eminent fame plus the caffeine, of course,” said Steve, “You know you should really take care better care of yourself.”
Juan looked guilty, “I’ve got a confession, dude. I am really diabetic. Type II. I don’t tell anyone at work, because I really like scarfing down desserts at the monthly office birthday parties.”
“No shit,” said Steve, “I had wondered. I mean last month I must have seen you devour three slices of red velvet cake. Well maybe if you keep yourself healthy for your adoring fans.”
“I haven’t taken care of myself since my wife left me. I drink too much, eat too many fast sugars. When I started this writing thing, I thought that maybe life wouldn’t be day after day at TDS and nights when I hoped I would just die in my sleep.”
Steve said, “Writing brought the best out in me. No question. Say man you are looking a little like a slice of red velvet cake right now. Why don’t you go on home? I can handle everything here.”
“I am a little queasy. Is it hot in here?” Juan seemed disoriented
“It is really hot,” lied Steve. “Come on let’s get you home. Enough excitement today for my flan.”
Juan made his ponderous way to the escalator.
“No. Come on take the stairs. You need to start taking care of yourself, baby steps you know.”
“You are the only friend I’ve got.”
“I know. Joan used to feel the same way.”
Steve began leading the bug man to the stairwell. With the slightest shiver of distaste, he put his hand on the sweat soaked back of Juan’s pink shirt. Big, wet brown. As Juan began to step on to the straits, Steve sharply increased the pressure of his arm on John’s back. Suddenly Juan ripped. He tried to break his fall, but only broke his arm. The body slumped-and-slid down to the turn in the stairs. Steve slowly stepped down to his fallen companion. Juan’s heart had not withstood the strain. Poor Juan, he should have started that aerobics program he was always talking about. All those enchiladas and
He was Juan’s loudest mourner. Everyone had known how close they were. Someone asked about Juan’s book. Steve said that he thought Juan had sent it out. Juan had always been secretive about his writing. No, Steve had never seen the book. The family up from San Antonio had never heard of it. The boss saw how upset Steve was, and sent him home for a week to get over his loss. Steve used this time to print out new copies of John’s work and stuff them into the envelopes that Juan had so thoughtfully provided. He changed the byline and the title and cleaned up Juan’s grammar. Juan had chosen a good set of markets, but then Juan had an excellent understanding of his own work. Steve felt that
Bluebonnets azured the highways, and Steve’s agent Mary Denning finalized a deal with Bantam for
Steve took Sally to Joaquin’s, the only restaurant in town with a three star rating. She was so proud. She was going to try her hand at this. She already had an idea for a fantasy novel.
As he put the pearls around her neck, Steve wondered how good it would be.
RING OF THE RED KNIGHT
I hadn’t liked the old man. Winslow Carvenell was a nuisance. Always measuring the border between our garden plots with a ruler—as though fearful a single tomato of mine might have cast a shadow over his roses. He was the most disagreeable sort of neighbor, and except for our mutual interest in the magical arts there was little in common between us. Neither of us were great enchanters, neither had great wealth. I had made my own through hard work and study, but an accident of birth had made my neighbor poorer than his kin.
But I was grieved when I heard he died and fearful when I heard it was murder. After all, he lived next door.
Shina, his maid, had found him with a cut from ear to ear. Someone had murdered him in his sleep. The maid, being resourceful, had called upon the constable before alarming the neighborhood. I heard of old Winslow’s death from him, but I knew I would hear all the gory details from her—for Shina had once been a love of mine.
Constable Gager arrived just as I was heading off for the Academy where I taught classes in thaumaturgy, beginning philosophy of magic, and magical epistemology. The constable had been a student of mine, years ago. I had failed him because he was too lazy to apply himself. He had improved with the passing of years, but his hatred for me had certainly not diminished. Such is often a teacher’s fate. He was suspicious of the fact that I had heard nothing, and advised me grimly not to leave town.
I was late for class, and some of my students had walked. So I conjured a small pink cloud in my likeness and sent it off to the tavern where they were sure to have gathered. It rounded them up in a few minutes, and I gave a fairly good lecture on beginning invisibility.
Shina was waiting for me when I got home. I had given her the word which unlocked my door when we were an “item” years before.
“It was awful, Robert,” she said. “He was slumped over his writing desk his throat slit from ear to ear. His journal is ruined, who knows how many years of research on his family is gone.”
“Who do you think killed him?”
“Winslow didn’t have an enemy in the world. Oh you and he argued over trifles, and Dieter Betz over at Miracle University argued over how to decipher certain ancient texts, and he’s never been too sweet on his nephew, which is sad since the Count will be paying for his funeral.”
“William pays for everything after all. Did Winslow have anything to bequeath?”
“His books and scrolls will go to the University. William came by and said he’d pay my salary for another month and that I could have any personal effects I wanted.”
“I’m really sorry, Shina, if there’s anything I can do—” That is probably the oldest incantation in mankind’s repertory—its magic had been used up centuries before Atlantis sank beneath the waves. But she put her head on my shoulder and cried softly for a very long time. I saw quite a few silver hairs in her blond hair and wondered how I had become an old scholar. Where was the young wizard I once was? How long had I played the part of aging scholar-mage?
* * * * * * *
The next day Count William paid me a visit. William was Winslow’s nephew. William was the son of Rudolfo, the older of twin brothers. Rudolfo got the title and lands by arriving four minutes before his brother. Winslow got a scholar’s salary and a small house from the university—one of the Count’s favorite charities. William was a good Count, I suppose, he gave great feasts and his costume parties in Carnival season were well known. He dropped by my humble home to borrow texts, commission poetry or merely to give brandies and wines. But I never stood in his presence without knowing to my very bones that I was in front of the man who owned me. It is said the mark of a good ruler is that their presence makes you want to serve, but that a poor ruler merely makes you know that you serve.
Count William asked if I would deliver Winslow’s eulogy. I accepted. He also told me that Constable Gager had a lead on the case. Someone had seen the murderer leaving Winslow’s home.
