really so recondite, judging by the title. Open it up and let us see.
He read, flipped a page, read more. He riffled through the introductory sections to get to the meat.
There was no meat. Conventional magic with a few spices thrown in for savor. Nothing new. He'd bungled in choosing this one.
With a great sigh, he closed Eldritch Charms and laid hands on a little octavo, printed on cheap paper and bound in cloth, that was nothing more than a compendium of lists of books on magic, well-known and obscure. He paged through it.
What, exactly, was he looking for?
He sat back and folded his arms. Indeed. If only he could characterize the spell, describe its nature, he would then have a handle by which to grasp the problem.
Let's see: Dancing girls. Musicians. Entertainers. Definite thread there.
Janitorial homunculi. Hmmmm. Gladiators.
Osmirik twiddled his thumbs. Gods, what could the connection be? Was there some pattern he was not seeing? Perhaps it was so obvious that he could not see it for its very simplicity.
Troubadours and gladiators. Well, the latter were considered entertainment in some cultures. But in others, religious ritual. What did troubadours and circus acts have in common? Or, for that matter, high-flown dance troupes and comedians? Surely the practice of a refined art form had nothing to do with animal acts or the telling of coarse jokes. Marching bands. Oh, dear.
He flipped through the pages of the octavo. Grimoire after grimoire; but which one held the key?
Perhaps he would do better not to consider effects, but look to style. Was there some flavor to the spell that could provide a clue as to its origin? Osmirik considered the matter.
No, he could discern no identifiable signature. The magic surely was not Incarnadine's, or Trent's, nor did it evoke anyone whose style he might recognize. But the magic did have a flavor of sorts. It was… exotic, romantic. It struck him as self-indulgent, given to excess. Obviously it was a spell gone wild, out of control; but something told him that the spell was profligate in and of itself.
Could it be a pact with supernatural forces in which the mortal signatory was granted any wish? In other words, had someone sold himself to demons? Perhaps. Or it was something similar. Not a pact, but the invocation of a malign spirit.
Perhaps it was a simple wish spell that had gone out of control. But it seemed too powerful to be simple. What about a very complex wish spell that involved the invoking of some powerful supernatural force, a malevolent one? What if that had got out of control?
What if…? Ah, yes. Suppose an incompetent magician had got hold of a very dangerous grimoire, one that offered spells that only a past master could work without deleterious side-effects. Suppose further that this incautious neophyte botched the thing badly enough so as to give malign supernatural forces free rein to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting world.
Yes, suppose. It would be fruitful then to compile a list of exotic wish-granting spells.
But that would be a long list. Was there some way to narrow the list still further? Osmirik gave the possibility some thought.
Shouts and confusion outside. Someone or something crashed against the wall of the cubicle.
A spell botched this badly could only have come from a complete fool of a magician or one so naive as to dabble in dangerous magic without adequate preparation. Perhaps a very young or inexperienced magician; and it would help if that youngster was quite venal and not very bright. Such a one could stumble across…
He remembered something and sat up with a start. Had not a page come this morning bearing a message from Spellmaster Grosmond? Something about… Yes! The message said that a secret crypt had been discovered in the basement, and that this crypt was stuffed with some very interesting articles, among which were several old books-magical books, they appeared to be-which Osmirik, as Royal Librarian, was supposed to examine to see if they were of any value. Osmirik had read the message and made a note on his calendar to go down there when, as Grosmond suggested in his communication, the place had been swept out a bit.
Osmirik rose from his seat. He must get to the basement as soon as possible. But that presented a problem in itself. Nevertheless, he was determined to attempt the passage, and he had a possible means of assuring his safety.
He picked up yet another grimoire, a quarto volume in lambskin embossed with gold. It, too, was a book of exotic spells, among which was a spell of invisibility. With this charm properly cast, Osmirik meant to pick his way through the chaos. There were other enchantments he meant to use as well, including a general facilitation spell. There was an overriding problem with all this, however.
Osmirik was not a very good magician. In fact, he was not much of a magician at all. He knew a great deal of theory, but working efficacious magic was a matter of talent as well as acumen. And talent, in the long run, was quite possibly more important than acumen in the making of a successful magician.
But now it was vitally important that he become a successful magician, and in very short order.
He took his seat again, opened the book, and began to study.
GRAND BALLROOM
With one mighty sweep of his broadaxe, Snowclaw decapitated another opponent.
The head rolled across the parquetry and stopped, its bulging eyes staring up at the cut-crystal chandeliers. Then it disappeared, as did the headless body at Snowclaw's feet. Snowclaw didn't care for that. Better both should lie there and bleed satisfyingly for a while.
Nevertheless, Snowclaw was having one hell of a good time.
Another gladiator came at him, this one wielding a trident. Snowclaw swung the axe and clipped the weapon off at the prongs, then followed through, going into a graceful pirouette and bringing his blade whistling around again to take the man's legs off at the knees. Blood gushed, then vanished.
'Darn it.'
Wasn't good sport just to disappear like that. The least they could do was hang around a minute and spill a little gore.
The room was clanging with gladiatorial action, but at the moment no one else was free to engage Snowclaw. The great white beast waited impatiently.
'This is no fun.'
He watched for a short time. None of these guys was any match for him. Or the females for that matter (and some of them were better than the males).
He left the ballroom and strode down the hall, swiping this way and that to clear a path. Soon everyone got the idea and stayed out of his way.
He met few challengers. At one point he, witnessed a victory and was ready to do combat with the victor, but the latter took one look at the broadaxe and wanted no part of it.
'Aw, come on, fella.'
'You're not even human!' was the man's excuse as he skedaddled.
'Lot of fun you are.'
Snowclaw walked on. No one would give him so much as a glance. Growing frustrated, and even though it wasn't exactly fair, he whanged an unsuspecting combatant on the head as he passed, using the flat of the blade. The man was out for the count, of course, but aside from that…
He came to an elevator shaft-one of several in the keep-and pressed the DOWN button. Maybe another floor would provide more action.
He passed the time watching the proceedings. Then a soft chime sounded; the doors slid open and he stepped in. The only other passenger was a man strumming a battered guitar.
'Down?' Snowclaw asked.
The guitar player nodded. The man was lanky, red-haired, balding, rather homely, and wore scruffy clothes. He launched into a folk song.
Snowclaw did not know the tune (he knew no tunes, as such), but instantly hated it. The man's voice was
