Spell Games

by T. A. Pratt

  “You can't get to the underworld by digging,” Rondeau said. “I don't know about angels, but sometimes people with psychic powers get their visions in a weird kind of external way—a radiant being whispering secrets in your ear doesn't seem that far-fetched. And the tumor could have activated some latent telepathic power your mother had.”

  Cam-Cam nodded. “That's interesting. I can't decide if it's more or less interesting than the possibility of literal angels.”

  Rondeau shrugged. “I don't know about glowing flying hall monitors, you know? The universe, in my experience, has no underlying morality. Though there do seem to be consequences. If you do a lot of damage, damage will be done to you, in the long run. I'm not sure it has anything to do with God, though. Marla says karma is just a law of the universe, no more conscious than the laws of thermodynamics, and just as in es cap able.”

  The boat bumped up against Cam-Cam's dock, and Danny Two Saints, in the guise of the terrifying boatman, extended his arm and pointed: Get Off. Before disembarking, Cam-Cam solemnly shook hands with Rondeau, who promised to get in touch soon.

  Danny piloted the boat away, back out onto the water, and once they were a good distance from the land, he threw his hood back and lit a cigarette. The glow-in-the-dark paint on his cheeks made him look like an extraterrestrial clown. After a long silence, he growled, “Don't get soft.”

  “What?” Rondeau looked up from his study of his hands.

  “I see you getting all pensive and shit. ‘Oh, no, the mark is a human with hopes and dreams and a dead mom, I feel so bad for fleecing him.’ Forget it. Cam-Cam's rich, self-obsessed, and fuckin’ delusional, just like his mom was. You hear me?”

  “I do, I just… he's an ass, but he doesn't seem like a bad guy.”

  Danny grunted. “My grandpa was a coal miner. The guys who own mines aren't good guys. Period. You want a tale of woe? How about your granddad coming down with black lung, and he dies still owing money to the company that employed him and killed him?”

  “Is that why you're ripping off Cam-Cam? Because he owns mines, and you want revenge?”

  “Nah, fuck that.” Danny flicked the butt of his cigarette into the water. “I just want his money.”

  Bulliard sniffed and snuffled along the street like a bloodhound, down on all fours, pressing his nose against the cold metal discs of manhole covers and pausing at storm drains. While his tormentor was engaged, the messenger considered reaching for a nice chunky loose half-brick crumbled off one of the shithole buildings on this street and using it to cave in the myco-mancer's head. That seemed like a good idea. Practical. But his body wouldn't oblige, the mushrooms growing into his brain regulating his actions too closely for that, and the messenger couldn't even work up much rage in the face of the coercion. Part of that was probably simple exhaustion, but he feared his brain chemistry was being tweaked, too, and wondered, in the way one occasionally worries about cancer after encountering a suspicious mole during a shower, what exactly the Mycelium had planned for him. He reflected, not for the first time, that meeting Nicolette was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He wished he could tell Bulliard she was the one who'd sent the message about the spores, but the geas on him was too strong for that. Too bad. Seeing Nicolette tussle with old mossface here would be a treat.

  “What are we looking for?” he asked, as Bulliard pressed his nose against the thousandth manhole of the night.

  The sorcerer swung his head around and peered up at the messenger without rising from the ground. “A point of entry And I think this is it.” He hooked his grubby fingers into the holes on the manhole cover and lifted the weight as if it were only an imitation of metal, carved in balsa wood or Styrofoam, then descended the ladder, going down headfirst like some kind of lizard. The messenger followed more conventionally. Bulliard apparently had no trouble with the dark, scurrying along the low nasty tunnel at a rapid clip, while the messenger groped and stumbled along after him.

  After many twistings and turnings, the messenger glimpsed a light, and Bulliard made a strange snuffling noise of glee. The light turned out to be a dusty bulb set in a rusty cage over a door of dull gray metal. At least, the messenger assumed it was a door—it had no handle, and there was no pushbell or intercom in sight.

  “Dead end,” the messenger said. “How about we go back up top and find a hotel? Someplace with room service? I could eat a horse. A caribou. Just about anything—except mushrooms.”

  Bulliard ignored him and placed the palm of his hand against the seam where the door met the brick around it, a crack so narrow a credit card could not have been inserted. After a moment, bright orange mushrooms began to sprout up in the cracks in the brick, showering down fragments of displaced stone and mortar as they grew. Bulliard stepped back as the mushrooms sprang up all around the door, their progression swift as flame along a line of gasoline, and the metal door made a low strange groan.

  Bulliard suddenly surged forward, planting both hands on the door and shoving. The door popped loose from the wall and fell inward. A thin man in a b utton-down shirt, a tie, and a leather helmet like an old-time football player's stood gaping at them beyond the door-hole, then lifted a double-barreled shotgun to firing position.

  The messenger dropped to his belly Good to know his motor functions weren't compromised when it came to basic ass-saving measures. The gun didn't go off, though, and when the messenger looked up, he saw Bulliard take the gun from the man's hands. Brown mushroom caps sprouted from both the weapon's barrels.

  “Take me,” Bulliard said, “to the master of this place.” The man tried to run, and Bulliard reached out and grabbed the back of his neck. “Don't run, or I will kill you. The Mycelium won't mind.”

  Lucky bastard, the messenger thought. Why's the Mycelium have to be so fond of me?

  The disarmed man—a servant, an apprentice?—led them through narrow corridors, and after a few moments they entered a large space crammed with shelves and lined with vault doors. The room appeared to be deserted, and the messenger pointed to a low rounded concrete structure tucked between two support pillars. It looked like a World War Two bunker with a profusion of cameras and microphones bristling above the concrete door, on which the word “Management” was neatly lettered. “Viscarro is in there.”

  Viscarro, the messenger thought. Hell, I've done work for him. Lousy tipper.

  Bulliard rapped on the concrete with his filthy knuckles. “Hmm. Are you there, sorcerer?”

  “I am,” crackled a voice from a speaker near the door. “I don't appreciate being roused from my studies. This bunker is rather cramped, but it has the advantage of being impregnable. Do please leave, or I'll have to deploy the poison gas, and I'm sure to lose an apprentice or two in the process. There are always a couple of them lurking about in the night.”

  The apprentice who'd led them in bolted away, though Bulliard took no notice. The messenger rather wished he could skedaddle himself.

  “Hmm.” Bulliard sniffed at the door. He placed his hand against it, but no mushrooms sprang up—the bunker was probably wrapped in fifty layers of magical protections. “My nose thinks you can help me. The Mycelium thinks you can help me. Perhaps…we can help each other.”

  “I rather doubt that. Perhaps I'll use mustard gas. The canisters are old, but of a good vintage.”

  “I am the deadly dapperling,” Bulliard said. “Poison does not frighten me.”

  “For what it's worth, it frightens me!” the messenger said.

  “Then convince your associate to leave,” the speaker crackled.

  “Sorry, it's more of a master-slave relationship, and not in a good kinky way”

  “Tell me,” Bulliard said. “In these vaults. You have… many wonderful things?”

  “Wouldn't you like to know.”

  “I think I shall.” Bulliard went to one of the great gleaming round doors. He pressed his hands against the door… and the vaults apparently didn't have quite the level of magical protection th
e bunker did, because mushrooms began to burst from the edges of the door, making the metal squeal and producing a loud pop when the seal broke.

  “Stop!” Viscarro shouted.

  “I will not even steal them,” Bulliard said. “Your treasures. I will rot those that rot. I will break those that break. I will defile those that are pure, and purify those that are cursed. The others, I will shit on. Some of them I will eat.” Bulliard grabbed the handle on the vault—round like a ship's door—and began hauling on it, grunting. The metal shifted, just a bit, but noticeably.

  A hiss of dead air on the speaker, then, “What do you want?”

  “The Borrichius spores.”

  “They are imaginary.”

  “Perhaps not. I have reason to believe they are in Felport.”

  “That is… interesting. But they're not here, so why are you?”

  “This is not my city. I am unsure where to search for the spores. Help me find them, and I will share them with you.”

  The messenger wanted to say, “Oh, please, if you believe that I've got some beachfront property in Idaho to sell you,” but his tongue and lips and breath betrayed him, and he stood silent. Apparently Bulliard—or the Mycelium—was only willing to tolerate so much sass out of him, and not during delicate moments.

  “Perhaps we can reach an accommodation,” Viscarro said.

  “We are reasonable men,” Bulliard said. The messenger tried to laugh, but couldn't.

  The bunker door hissed and unsealed, and a bald, pointy-eared man in a stained brown bathrobe shuffled out, carrying a pistol that looked comically oversized in his small hand. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “I am Bulliard, a servant of the Mycelium.”

  “That thing on your nose.” Viscarro's gun hand sagged, and he hurried forward. “It's magical, isn't it?”

  Bulliard tapped his pig snout. “It helps me find what I need. What the Mycelium needs. And it believes I need you.”

  “I could use something like that,” Viscarro said. “I need many things. The spores are imaginary, but that thing on your nose isn't.” He lifted the gun again.

  Bulliard held out his hand, palm up, and blew. A puff of dust flew from his hand into Viscarro's face, and the sorcerer dropped to the ground, writhing and screaming, pistol dropped and forgotten. “Rise for me,” Bulliard said, and Viscarro stood jerkily, mushrooms doubtless sprouting from the back of his neck.

  The messenger, able to move again, sighed and gave Viscarro a wave. “Welcome to the Mushroom Monster Slave Corps. I won't lie to you. It fucking sucks. But tall, dark, and mossy here just wants to know where to find the bullshit spores.”

  “As I said, the spores are fictional.” Viscarro's voice grated as if scoured by a sandstorm. “Borrichius was a boastful liar prone to self-aggrandizement. Since his spores don't exist, may I have control of my body back? You could have set up an appointment for a consultation with me. Your slave has a prior business relationship with me, so that level of etiquette should have been possible even for someone facing your obvious challenges to hygiene and socialization.”

  “You know this creature?” Bulliard turned on the messenger.

  “We've done business. Couldn't mention it before. You know. Geas.”

  “Your limitations begin to outweigh your usefulness.”

  “Better euthanize me, then.”

  Bulliard turned back to Viscarro. “The spores do exist. I have received a message, telling me they are here, in this city.”

  “A message from—oh. An anonymous message, sent by special courier. I see. I'm not certain that enslaving the messenger is any more reasonable than killing the messenger, by the way You believe this message is genuine?”

  “Why would anyone lie to me? The Mycelium does not like having its time wasted.”

  “You've been living alone in the woods too long.” Viscarro shook his head. “Sorcerers have many reasons for lying. Some lie just because they like it. But I suppose it's possible the spores are here. I've seen unlikelier things come to pass. I'm not sure what I can do to help you, though.”

  “You know the city's sorcerers. You can make inquiries without arousing suspicion. You will find the spores. You will tell me their location. I will take them to the Mycelium.”

  “After dividing them with me, of course.” Viscarro's eyes were beady, but sharp.

  Bulliard snorted. “I think we are beyond such pretense. My mushrooms are in your brain, and your body is mine.”

  “Well. Much good the spores will do you. Once I'm loosed from your thrall, I'll kill you. Then I'll add your pretty pig nose to the vault I keep for souvenirs taken from vanquished foes. It's a very large vault, and quite full already, but I'll make room.”

  Bulliard shrugged. “Once the Mycelium has no further use for you, I will use your corpse as feed for fungus.”

  “Oh, you'll find me harder to kill than that.” Viscarro smiled a rather horrible smile, full of oddly pointed, yellowed teeth. The messenger had to admire his chutzpah, and Bulliard actually looked uncomfortable for a moment. The messenger was almost cheered, seeing that… but then Bulliard's usual blank, focused affect returned. “I am only a servant of the Mycelium, as you are—but I am a willing servant, and am thus exalted, while you are lowly and base. Your threats mean less to me than the chewing of earthworms in the dirt. Now, slave: where will you begin your inquiries regarding the spores?”

  “It's a fool's errand, but as in all such situations, I may as well start at the top. I'll set up a meeting with Marla Mason.”

  “You will do this now.”

  “I will do this in the morning. Asking Marla for a meeting at this time of night would definitely arouse suspicion.”

  Bulliard appeared to ponder. “Very well. But early.”

  The messenger yawned. “So where do you keep the guest rooms around here? I haven't slept in days.”

  ise and sparkle, movie star.” Marla prodded B with her boot.

  He groaned and rolled over in bed. He was fully clothed, and still smeared with garbage. Marla wrinkled her nose. “You might want to change your sheets. I think you got some alley slime on them.”

  “So… much… disgusting.” B sat up and rubbed his face. “I feel like I just went to bed an hour ago.”

  Marla picked up the clock beside his bed. “Oh, maybe two hours, assuming Rondeau can be trusted about what time he heard you stumbling in.”

  “Day off?” B said hopefully

  “Nope. No rest for the weary, or the wicked, or you. You're going to the park.” She said “park” the way another person might say “garbage dump” or, possibly, “gulag.”

  “Shower? Coffee?” The hope in his voice was pitiful and endearing.

  “Sure, I'm not a monster. You can have ten whole minutes to clean and change, and get coffee on the way out.”

  B crawled out of bed and stumbled down the hall, toward the bathroom. Marla followed and leaned against the doorjamb outside while he undressed and got into the shower. The spectacle of unselfconscious, naked Bradley would normally have been satisfying, but he was covered in Dumpster-juice, and she had other stuff on her mind.

  “How was the thing last night?” he called from the shower. “The big scam?”

  Marla watched steam billow and begin to fog the mirror. “Scamtastic. My brother's chosen line of work might be low-down and reprehensible, but he's got a gift for it. And Cam-Cam was pretty much as annoying as I remembered, so my conscience isn't twinging a bit, thanks. Anyway, the scam rolls on without me now. I was just the convincer, really.”

  “I still don't approve, but it's nice you're spending time with Jason.”

  “Some siblings play in bands together or join a soft-ball league or something. We, apparently, rip off chumps. It's the new family bonding.”

  “Whatever works. What's on the agenda today?”

  “You're going to see Granger, the idiot.”

  “He's an idiot?”

  “He oughta be. His parent
s were siblings. So were their parents. He's the only hereditary sorcerer in Felport. His great-great-something-great grandfather was one of the first sorcerers here, the nature magician who put the beast of Felport into hibernation for a couple of centuries and made the place safe for colonists.

  He was also in charge of the village commons, which, eventually, became Fludd Park, that ugly green blight in the middle of my nice concrete-and-asphalt city. The original Granger was… kind of fanatic about family Married one of his cousins, or something. Believed magic ability was linked to bloodline, and cast a spell to ensure his descendants would inherit his powers and responsibilities. At this point, those responsibilities mostly entail making sure the duck pond doesn't overflow and the trees don't fall down or whatever. Which is good, since I don't think the original Granger counted on all the inbreeding his kids would do. The current Granger has a seat in our high councils, but he doesn't exactly bring a lot to the table, except for the boogers he wipes underneath. He mostly just hangs out in the park.”

  “So you're sending me to learn something from this guy?”

  “He's not totally useless. He's a potent nature magician, actually. And a hell of a gardener. Just not much of a conversationalist, unless you find compost really interesting. After last night, I'm guessing you don't. He can teach you how to, I dunno, whistle in the language of songbirds or harvest magical herbs or some crap. Who knows. Not really my area.” Marla had grown up surrounded by cornfields, and had spent most of the past two decades trying to get as far from flora as she could.

  B turned off the shower. “So while I'm learning at the feet of the master, what will you be doing?”

  “It's the damnedest thing, but Viscarro asked me for a meeting this morning. He's actually coming here.”

  “Our friend the Nosferatu? I got the feeling he'd been in that spider hole of his for years.” B climbed out of the shower and started toweling off.