Twenty-two
Malnovia
The sign above the door was in strange script but he knew it read:
UNITED BROTHERHOOD OF MAGICIANS — LOCAL
There was no handle on the door. No knocker either. The door was starkly imposing, painted a shiny black.
Trent ran his hand over the surface. Smooth, very smooth. And vibrating. The tension was incredible.
He backed away from the entrance and surveyed the front of the building. It was undistinguished, slate- roofed and sheathed in rough stone. A cozy little building of three stories and a garret. Quaint dormers with peaked gables. Very sedate.
He approached the door again and knocked once. There came the suggestion of a vast, echoing interior.
“Okay,” Trent said.
He stepped back again, looked the place up and down a second time.
Then, suddenly, he spun once around, cape billowing, arms raised, and went into a dramatic stance, a configuration of power that conducted energy down from the ether, through his arms and into his hands. Power flowed out the ends of his fingers and shot straight at the shiny black barrier of the door.
The door flew open with a bang.
“Right.”
Trent noticed that several people had stopped along the street to stare. He smiled, waved. They all hurried away.
He shrugged, then turned to regard the interior. It was dim. He walked to the door and looked in. A narrow corridor went off to the left an oddly long distance before it made an L. There was only the left turn, one way to go. He glanced outside and compared the dimensions of the building to the apparent length of the corridor. There was a disorienting mismatch.
“Neat trick.”
He entered and began walking along the dark corridor toward the comer. He had gone only a half-dozen steps before the door slammed violently, shutting out all light and sound from the outside world.
All light, except that from his butane lighter, already out and burning. He held it high and proceeded with some caution, peering around the comer before turning it. The walk to the next L was even longer, and as he went along he heard strange noises up ahead. Sub-audial rumblings mixed with sharp, high-pitched squeaks, like a high- end stereo system with bowel trouble.
Then, more sounds. Subhuman growling. Groans. The scrabbling of claws. A scream.
He kept walking, whistling a nameless tune.
A bone-chilling demonic howl made him stop.
“Good, good.” He smiled and nodded in admiration.
Another turn, and another. Leading nowhere.
He walked the maze for the next five minutes and got no nearer his goal, which, to his chagrin, was now a bathroom. He berated himself for not doing his business before entering. But a little nervousness can work its influence very quickly. And this, for all its mumbo jumbo, was nervous-making.
The butane lighter was getting hot. He snapped it off, and stood in darkness for a while.
When he clicked it on again the flame picked out the form of a monstrous creature, green-eyed and fearsomely clawed, advancing toward him out of the gloom.
“Hello there!” Trent greeted it. “Know where I can take a pee?”
“In your breeches, mortal,” the demon roared, the chitin of its face splitting into a feculent smile.
“Ooops,” Trent said.
Just before the flame went out, the demon lunged.
Darkness.
There came a hideous yowl; then, a burst of flame lit up the corridor. The flash diminished, subsided.
The remnants of something torn into several pieces lay smoking and burning on the floor.
Trent walked out of the shadows and bent to examine the remains, turning up his nose at the stench. He straightened up and stepped over them, walked on.
“Okay, people. I’ve seen the floor show. Now, when do I get some service?”
More screeching and howling came from up ahead.
“Right. I’m starting to get just a little annoyed.”
The floor heaved and vibrated. The rough-boarded walls shook.
“Just a little ticked off, people.”
Abruptly, everything ceased: the thunder, the shaking, the horror-movie soundtrack. There was a doorway ahead, light coming through. He walked toward it.
He stepped out into a cramped office of crowded shelves, messy desks, gooseneck lamps, and general shabbiness. A closed door marked PRIVATE was set into the far wall.
There were two people in the room. A woman worked at a desk in the corner, hitting the keys of a curious machine that must have been a typewriter but looked like a medieval version of one. A man, short, stooped, and bespectacled — a real Bob Crachitt type, ink-sleeves and all — sat at a roll-top desk nearer the door, writing in a ledger with a long black pen, the point of which he dipped frequently into an squat ink bottle.
The woman, middle-aged and matronly in a bun and bifocals, kept typing, but the man looked up. He had thinning hair and a sallow face and smiled with large yellow teeth.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
Trent pocketed the Bic lighter.
“What was all that mummery about?”
The clerk’s smile broadened. “Our apprentice test. You passed. Do you want to join the guild?”
“How much are dues?”
“A tithe of your yearly earnings. One third payable on signing a membership agreement, the second third due —”
“Not interested,” Trent said. “I want information.”
“Oh? How may I help you, sir?”
“I want to know who murdered my brother.”
The clerk raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh.” He carefully laid down the pen. “I see. And your brother was …?”
“Oh, come on.”
“But I assure you, sir —”
“I want to see your boss. Who’s the head honcho in this chickenshit outfit?”
“I beg your pardon? Sir, this is the office of the Chief Steward of Local 218. But I am afraid that at the moment, sir, he is not available. If you wish to make an appointment, I can do that for you.”
“In about two minutes, I’m going to start taking this place apart beam from rafter.”
“Sir, threats will not —”
Trent raised his arms and the room began to tremble.
“I can do the scary bits, too, you know.”
The clerk looked around nervously.
The vibrations increased. Books fell from shelves, and a lamp toppled over. Ink sloshed over the clerk’s ledger.
“Oh, dear!”
The woman shrieked and jumped up, hands clapped over her ears.
A section of ceiling plaster shattered on the clerk’s already disorganized desk.
The clerk sprang to his feet and scurried toward the door marked PRIVATE.
“I’ll see if the Steward will receive you!”
“Hey, thanks! Nice of you.”
The clerk knocked first before he opened the door a crack and edged through.
