Trickster

by Jeff Somers

  I steadied myself and exploded into a constrained tantrum, shaking and jerking and trying to smash the rope, the chair, anything.

  The chair was nailed to the floor.

  Or maybe glued there via spell. It didn’t matter. It didn’t let me gain any momentum. I was stuck like a beetle tied to a pin. Walking in tighter circles, endlessly. I breathed hard through my nose, trying to push against the tape with my tongue. If I could get the tape off, I could cast some tiny Cantrip. It would be enough to get me out of the chair. I didn’t doubt there was some deep magic on the door, so getting out of the room might not be easy, but losing the tape would be a start.

  I sagged down and relaxed. Felt the sweat pouring down my back. I was going to die in this fucking room shortly before everyone else in the world died, wherever they happened to be.

  A key in the lock. A whisper. The door swung inward on silent, greased hinges, and Cal Amir entered. Sauntered in like a cat with its tail in the air. A Bleeder trailed after him. Bald and fat, as Bleeders tended to be. Wearing a black suit. A big woman with no curves, a beaklike nose. Looking a little peaked already, with a fresh scar on her forehead. Like Renar and Amir had been forced to use their Bleeders more than usual. Run them down a little.

  Amir glided about a bit, silent, with that terrible grace rich, powerful people had. The Bleeder stepped back against the door, pushing it shut. There was no click. I had the impression of an airtight seal. I wondered how much air the three of us had.

  With a nod from Amir, the Bleeder stepped forward with her blade and sliced one of my arms free from the chair. Thrust a pen into my hand and stepped back to hold a pad of paper up to me.

  “You cast on her,” Amir said flatly. “What did you cast? Be specific.”

  I rolled my eyes in their sockets. Looked at Amir. Looked back at the Bleeder. I studied her fleshy face. Got the feeling she was hoping intently that she wouldn’t have to roll up a sleeve and give Amir the gas.

  I looked back at Amir. He was standing with his back to me. Studying the wallpaper. Hands easy behind him. As I watched he turned. Raised his eyebrows. “What was it?”

  I just stared. Thought about the runes on Claire. How they deflected magic. Every action had a reaction. Amir and Renar seemed worried that one of our tricks might have skewed their careful markings.

  He nodded and stepped back toward me. “You see, the ritual is very complex. Each link in the chain must be very carefully prepared. Magic leaves a residue of sorts. Easy enough to detect, using more magic. But you see the problem, then? We can’t use magic on her to check if magic has been used. That would only worsen the problem. But we must know. The markings twist energy. They deflect, distort—they are designed to distort and route energy a certain, precise way. If they are already routing one of your idiotic mu, the results of the biludha will be . . . unpredictable. We must know exactly what was cast so we can check for problems, make adjustments. Otherwise, weeks of work. Very disappointing. We’d prefer to spend ten minutes making you hurt and then perhaps we can avoid that small hell.

  “So the question: What did you cast on her? She’s an attractive girl, Trickster. Perhaps a bit of Charm to spread those long white legs at night? Perhaps she did not trust you. A bit of magic smooths all waters. Perhaps she ran from you. Resisted your help. A Cantrip just to calm her down.”

  I thought of Hiram. Claire in his bathroom. Hope flushed through me, soured by fear for Claire. But at least if something we did queered the biludha we weren’t taking the whole world down with us.

  “You see, we cannot take your word for it, Mr. Vonnegan,” Amir purred. “It would be worthless. You would tell us you cast something complex and unbelievable on her in order to interrupt our plans. Or you would tell us you did not cast on her, hoping that at the last moment we would be ruined. This, I admit, is our largest concern.”

  He extracted his black leather gloves from his jacket pocket and began pulling them on. Stepped closer to me.

  “The conversation will be one-sided.” He leaned in close to me. He smelled like good, old leather and the beach. “It will be no impediment to my questioning.”

  A moment of silence between us. Ruined by the low whistle of my breathing. He squatted down in front of me. “Tell me, something, Mr. Vonnegan: Do you know how I came to apprentice to Mika Renar?”

  I shook my head. I wondered if I’d been Charmed, somehow, subtly. Amir was like a shining thing, creepy and gorgeous all at once. Captivating. I wanted to look at him.

  “I was apprenticed to another gasam when I was very young. He was very cautious. Suspicious of me. He in turn was in service to Renar. She was young then, beautiful. My gasam had a particular spell I wished to know. A simple thing, really. A nice trick. Nothing more. You perhaps already know something like it. He kept telling me I was not ready. I was not ready to learn his trick. This silly spell, this trifle.”

  He suddenly smiled down at me, cocking his head. “We are alone here. The other enustari have agreed to stay away, as the biludha is a fragile thing. My mistress is cruel, but she is honorable, else it would have been impossible to come to this agreement in the first place. Also, there is no one here to have second thoughts. No one of any ability to hear or see something that discomfits them. So we are alone, Mr. Vonnegan. Will you answer?” He waited a moment, then turned and shrugged at the Bleeder. She stepped back, dropping the pad, and began rolling up her sleeve.

  “I went to Renar to ask for advice. She admired my impatience. She suggested I become her apprentice, as she had none. She told me to do so I would have to kill my gasam, but that my reward would be her solemn oath to teach me everything she knew, without exception.” He smiled. “So far, as we have discussed, she has kept this oath save one last thing. And I have kept faith with her because of that. You see, Mr. Vonnegan, I am very good at discovery. I find out the things I wish to know.”

  He let that hang in the air. Kept smiling at me. His lips were smooth and glossy.

  “This,” he said, without moving or changing expression, “is going to hurt tremendously.”

  The Bleeder slashed a professional cut onto her arm. Blood welled up, dark. Amir whispered three words. Agony bloomed deep inside me.

  Someone had teleported a double-edged blade deep inside my bowels. And then applied a magnet, slowly drawing it out, hot and wet. I bit down on my tongue. Blood flooded my mouth. Air exploded from my nostrils and I leaned forward, straining against the bonds. But I didn’t make any other noise.

  The pain stopped.

  “What did you cast on her?”

  I sucked in breath. Exhaled. Blew snot all over him. He flinched. Pulled his handkerchief from his jacket breast pocket. Wiped his face. Whispered three words.

  I jerked back as the knife reappeared. It felt like something living and covered in sharp scales was wriggling inside me. Tearing me apart. I kept my mouth shut tight behind the tape. Three seconds, the pain disappeared. Not even a lingering burn.

  “What did you cast on her?”

  Before I could even contemplate a response, Amir spoke three words.

  Before he finished the final syllable I clenched my body tight and shut my eyes, drawing in and holding a deep breath. The pain sliced up from within anyway. It was all illusion, magic directly attacking my nervous system. Nothing I did physically was going to stop it or alter it. It was like a recording being played and rewound and played again. Always exactly the same.

  The pain vanished, and I sagged down, limp.

  “What,” he said as mildly as before, “did you cast on her?” The Bleeder picked up the pad of paper and held it up to my hand again, a thick line of blood marring the white surface. “Specifics, Mr. Vonnegan. As specific as possible.”

  I wondered if the stupid Charm we’d cast—the stupid Charm that was still tugging Daryl Houy by the cock days after it should have faded—was enough to queer the ritual. Amir and Renar were clearly afraid of even the smallest interference. That all that blood and magic would hit C
laire precisely the way it was supposed to . . . and then would squeak out of control, a tiny miscalculation, and then who the fuck knew—magical force suddenly burning through everything in sight, uncontrolled. So we would all die, but at least the world would be safe.

  Or I would break and write it out for him, and Renar would be able to make adjustments, and I would get to appreciate the fact that at least no one was going to tear this tape off my mouth. At least that.

  I didn’t like either option.

  With a heavy sigh theatrically conveying his disappointment in me, Amir spoke three words.

  I tried to surge upward again, every muscle in my body straining like boiled leather. Then it was gone. I collapsed back into my own sweat.

  “I do not trust other mages,” Amir said conversationally, still squatting there. Still beautiful. “Especially idimustari. You are crafty. If I cast a spell on you to ensure truthfulness, will you know a way to subvert it? I once caught one of you lifting my wallet. Poor fellow did not know who I was. Whom I was apprenticed to. I decided to have a bit of fun with him, and cast something similar to what I’m using now. A prank, really. He added a word. A syllable. Just whispered it as I spoke the spell, inserting it perfectly, transforming my little Cantrip and pushing it back on me.” He shrugged. “So, you cannot speak. You cannot be trusted. You are not quality, Mr. Vonnegan. And you wonder why you are being left behind while the rest of us go onward, forever.”

  He tilted his head. Reached into his jacket. “So, Mr. Vonnegan, magic will not help you, here. Your tricks will not prevail against your betters.” He produced a pack of cigarettes. “Tell me: What did you cast on her?”

  I pushed my swollen tongue against the tape. There was enough blood in the air, just being wasted, I could cast a dozen fucking spells to my benefit. If I could make the Words. Sweat ran into my eyes. I willed it down my face, willed it to loosen the glue. I needed two seconds. Then I’d show this smug asshole what a Trickster could do.

  I thought of the udug and in my hunger almost felt it. I wanted it to tell me some secret, something that would help. How did people figure things out without it? How had I lived without that flat voice telling me everything I needed to know, everything I didn’t need to know, everything, in one endless rush of confusion?

  Amir smiled, shaking out a cigarette. Held it for a second between two gloved fingers. “Very well, Mr. Vonnegan.”

  I shut my eyes. Clenched my jaw.

  Amir spoke three words.

  26

  I drifted up toward the dim, milky light. Flinched away from it and sank.

  Rose up again.

  Opened my eyes. Still in the chair. Still damp. Sweat and urine. I felt certain there would have to be some blood, but the pain had been imaginary. Real enough. Real enough to bruise where I was bound; every muscle ached from hours of strain. Hours of Amir whispering in my ear, hours of an invisible knife slicing up my insides.

  Every breath hurt. Razor blades.

  I tried to focus. There wasn’t much light. It had gotten dark. I tried to remember the hours with Amir. Had I said anything? I wasn’t entirely sure. Did it matter? I wasn’t sure of that, either.

  I became aware of a noise. I became aware of the invisible sizzling of magic in the air. Blood burning off. Huge amounts of it. More than I’d ever felt in my life. Closer than I’d ever felt. Like a nuclear bomb had gone off five feet away in an alternate universe.

  The biludha. Renar had started the Rite.

  I focused on the noise.

  The noise was right outside the door. Shouting. Heavy thuds. A mix of voices. As I sat there staring at the door it shuddered, leaping a little as something crashed into it.

  I thought of the udug, of it telling me what was coming. Found I couldn’t feel it in my hand anymore, like a stain.

  Something crashed into the door again. There was a distinct cracking sound. I tried to strain against my bonds again. I tried to shift the chair again. My whole body convulsed. Every muscle seized painfully. I slowly relaxed, breathing hard through my nose. My head hanging down. Eyes closed. I’d become so used to the thick tape across my mouth, I’d almost forgotten about it.

  I opened my eyes. Looked down past my own feet at the floor. Tendrils of smoke, white and dissolving, crept up between the floorboards.

  First I thought, Good, someone is burning the place down. Then I thought, Shit, someone is burning the place down.

  The door exploded inward, spraying the room with splinters. It smacked against the wall and hung off one hinge. A man appeared where the door had been, sailing through the air. He hit the floor a foot or two away from me and rolled to an ungentle stop. He was bald and pale and fat. Had once been well dressed. One of Renar and Amir’s Bleeders. He looked like he’d been doing a lot of bleeding.

  I looked up. The doorway was empty. I blinked. Pitr Mags filled the doorway, his hot, rapid breathing thunderous. His jacket and shirt had been torn open as if an animal with claws had attacked him. He was bloody and dirty. For a moment, framed in the doorway, he looked like a wild animal. Eyes flashing. Feral mouth hanging open. Hands curled into fists.

  “Lem,” he hissed, charging in and sinking down to his knees at my feet. He reached around me and started working on the knots around my hands, his face pressed against my chest. It burned painfully, my shredded muscles tender. “Me and Ketterly and Fallon came,” he whispered. “No one else would. I think Renar was expecting an army, not a couple of guys. Fallon cast something and we slipped right in. No trouble. No one’s here anyway. A bunch of Bleeders. No Renar, no Amir!”

  He laughed. It was a pure, spontaneous sound. Mags thought he was winning. I wanted to tell him that when you showed up for a fight and no one was there to fight you, you’d already lost.

  My hands slid free from the rope and fell heavily at my sides. I felt like I’d been chewed.

  “There’s gas in the air, huh, Lem? You can feel it, huh? Someone’s got the spigot open.”

  He was excited. Affection for Mags and his stupidity flooded me. For a moment, I couldn’t feel anything else. No pain. No weakness. Just a pure love for Pitr Mageshkumar, my nonsexual crush, the child I’d never had, the pet dog I’d never had.

  I tried to raise an arm, to pat Mags on the shoulder. My arms wouldn’t work. I was broken. Amir had broken me. With a fucking Cantrip three words long.

  Mags untied my ankles and pulled away from me, grinning his stupid monkey grin. I didn’t move. He frowned, working through it, and muttered a quick bunch of words and I was free of the chair. The invisible threads that had laced through my skin dissolved and I slid off the chair to my right, hitting the floor hard. I convulsed, trying to cry out, but couldn’t get my lungs to cooperate. Smoke floated lazily up around me.

  “Fuck,” Mags said, the word just drooling from his mouth like lazy air. A moment later my neck muscles screamed as he pulled my head into his lap, pointing my face more or less up toward his troubled, grit-smeared face.

  I wanted to say, Don’t worry. I’ll die here but I’m okay with that because I am tired and it hurts to breathe. And we’re all going to die in a few moments anyway. And that I was glad to die with him, the only friend I’d ever had. That I was sad to have let Claire die. All the other girls, too, all the ones the Skinny Fuck had kidnapped. All I could do was frown at Mags’s shadowed face.

  Abruptly, he let my head drop into his lap. Pulled his sleeve up to the elbow, revealing several fresh, weeping wounds. Tore one open with his fingers, a fresh stream of dark blood pouring down his arm. He started to recite, rocking a little as he did so. A concentration exercise. Like he was three years old, rhyming out the fucking times tables. As he spoke my pain faded. Remained, lurking under a layer of gauze, but suddenly manageable. I could move again, and laboriously extracted myself from Mags’s lap.

  I marveled at this. Being a Trickster had always meant being a parasite. You pushed your pincered head deep into someone’s flesh and sucked them dry. Even if they volunteered
, even if they exposed their own bellies and invited you to live inside them, it was still parasitic. It was still taking something from someone.

  This was different.

  Mags, giving me his own energy. Just enough to get me back to exhausted and ruined, instead of nearly dead. I still didn’t want to move. I wanted to remain curled up with my head in his lap and sleep until the world ended and released me. But he’d just bled to help me, and I owed him something. So I focused my eyes on him. Was surprised to find tears in them, an overwhelming feeling of affection pulsing in me. I loved this freak. My only friend, but when you had Pitr Mags, you didn’t need more than one. “Good to see you, Magsie.”

  I thought, if these are the last ten minutes of my life, not a bad way to go. I suddenly wished Hiram had made it, too.

  His ears perked forward like a puppy. “Good to see you, Lem.” He got to his feet, breathing hard.

  I slipped an arm around him, wincing from the agony that remained in spite of his spell. We limped together out of the room. What had I said to Amir? What had I convinced him of? I couldn’t remember, but suspected that, in the end, I’d scribbled the Cantrip out for him. Somewhere inside I knew I had, in shaky, big-looped letters, numb from pain and despair.

  The blood in the air was immense. I’d heard of huge rituals in the past. Battles staged. Cults organized. Mass murders scripted. An enustari in India had once engineered the capture and slow bleeding of over a hundred British soldiers to start a biludha into motion. Not so long ago an enustari had caused an Airbus A320 to crash in São Paulo, killing 181 people to kick-start a ritual. This had happened over and over again, history absorbing the tragedies and explaining them, investigating them, eschewing anything that didn’t make sense—because magic didn’t exist.

  I’d never felt even a hint of the power I felt being drawn now.

  Claire would be consumed, burned up by the spell. She would die in pain. Suffering. Alone. Thinking maybe I hadn’t even tried for her.