by Rick Cook
"Loafing again, are you? The house falling down about your ears and you lolling at your ease. Wizard or not, you are the laziest, most good-for-nothing layabout I have ever seen in all my days."
There was a lot more in that vein.
Over the course of the day Wiz discovered that the person who said you can get used to anything had never met Widder Hackett. The combination of her awful voice and her complaining nearly drove Wiz to distraction. If she had been there all the time he might have gotten used to her. But she would vanish for five or ten or fifteen minutes only to reappear with more demands just as Wiz was settling in to concentrate on what he was doing.
And there was nothing he could do to satisfy her. Even an attempt to sweep and dust the front parlor ended with the ghost shrieking that he was a useless ninny and all he was doing was moving the dirt from one corner of the room to another. Meanwhile, he not only wasn’t getting anything done, he wasn’t even able to think seriously about what he wanted to do. Worst of all, Wiz discovered that the exorcism spells that laid demons to rest had no effect at all on ghosts.
Fortunately for Wiz, Widder Hackett shut up at about ten o’clock at night-perhaps because old ghosts need their sleep. Be that as it may, Wiz got several hours of uninterrupted work in late that night.
Unfortunately Widder Hackett was back at sunup the next morning, loud as ever and full of new complaints and demands. Even putting a pillow over his head couldn’t shut her out, so Wiz was up and about before the cock stopped crowing.
Meanwhile Wiz’s message was on its way to the Wizard’s Keep. It traveled a long and convoluted path through two worlds. First it was injected into the telephone lines by magical interference with a digital switch in a telephone company central office. It traveled over the regular phone network to the modem attached to the system he had cracked. There it slipped by security, thanks to Wiz’s handiwork, and was received in one mailbox, transferred to another mailbox and sent out on the Internet. It traveled from computer to computer over the net as each node routed it to a succeeding node moving it closer to its destination. After traveling for several hours and touching every continent, including penguin.edu at Ross Station, Antarctica, it reached a node in Cupertino where it was stored until the final node made its daily connection to collect its mail. When thekeep.org called, the message was forwarded along with the rest of the day’s e-mail down a telephone line to the junction box serving an apartment building-specifically the line leading to the apartment occupied by a programmer and fantasy writer named Judith Conally. There it was magically picked off, translated back to the Wizard’s World along with most of the rest of the mail and showed up in Jerry’s mailbox in his workstation in the Wizard’s Keep.
Since Jerry slept mornings he didn’t find it until he came into the workroom about mid-afternoon. He was still yawning over his second mug of blackmoss tea when he sat down at his terminal. He looked over the job he had left running, found it was progressing satisfactorily and punched up a list of his mail.
Jerry called the message up and started reading. By the time he had finished the first screen he was biting his lip.
"Danny! Moira! You’d better come look at this."
Hi Jerry and everyone (especially Moira!):
I can’t tell you where I am or what I’m doing, but I’m safe-at least for now.
I don’t know how long this job is going to take, but I’ll have to stick with it until I’m done.
As to what I’m doing, let’s just say I’m taking a lesson from Charlie Bowen.
Say hi to everyone for me and don’t worry about me.
Give my love to Moira.
PS: Please don’t try to find me. It’s very important.
-W
"Who’s Charlie Bowen?" Danny asked.
"Someone Wiz used to work with at Seer Software," Jerry told him, abstractedly. "Another programmer."
"A real hotshot, huh?"
"No, that’s the funny thing. He was a lousy programmer. He wrote their accounts payable routine and he made a royal mess of it. The module kept fouling up assigning purchase order numbers, choking on invoices and if there was the least little problem in the paperwork, it kicked the thing out and it had to be processed manually. It was taking Seer Software six or eight months to pay even a simple bill and they kept having to explain to everyone it was the software’s fault."
Danny took a swig of tea. "So did they fire him?"
"That’s the other funny thing," Jerry said. "They promoted him."
Just then Moira came dashing into the room, face flushed and flour up to her elbows. "You’ve heard from Wiz!" she panted.
Jerry gestured to the message on the screen. She craned forward to read it over Jerry’s shoulder. As she read her face fell and then she started to frown, deeper and deeper as she read along. By the time she reached the bottom she was scowling.
"There is something very wrong here. Why didn’t he tell us where he is?"
Jerry shrugged. "He said he didn’t want us to know."
"He also said he did not want us to worry," Moira said grimly. "Those are mutually exclusive and he knows that."
"Then maybe," Danny said slowly, "he can’t tell us."
Jerry frowned. "You mean he doesn’t know where he is? That’s crazy. Wiz’s magic could tell him in an instant."
"So maybe he knows and can’t tell us," Danny said, groping.
"A geas!" Moira exclaimed. "Of course! He cannot tell us because he is magically forbidden to do so."
"He doesn’t sound like anything is stopping him," Jerry objected. "It sounds more like he’s being secretive of his own free will."
"That is the problem with a geas," Moira told him. "You do not necessarily know you are under it. Everything seems normal to you and you think you have the best reasons in the world for doing what you do, no matter how badly you want to do the opposite."
Jerry rubbed his chin. "Well, it sure fits with Wiz’s behavior. He wants to tell us, so he contacts us. But he can’t so he comes in through the net and then won’t say where he is."
"Is there any way to trace him?" the hedge witch asked. She gestured at the message header. "Wiz told me once that gives the location of the sender."
"Normally it does," Jerry said. "But take a look at it."
Danny frowned as he ran his finger along the line. The further he went, the deeper his frown became. "That can’t be natural," he said at last.
"It isn’t! That isn’t a routing path, it’s a shaggy dog story."
"Meaning what?" Moira demanded.
"Meaning he deliberately set up this routing to be as difficult and obscure as he could make it," Danny said before Jerry could answer. "See, normally a message is routed automatically by the most efficient path-given the location of the source, location of the destination, topology of the net and the amount of traffic. But you can force the route by using bang paths."
Moira didn’t understand much of that, but she was game. "Bang paths?"
"Yeah. Site names separated by bangs." He pointed to an exclamation point between two names. "That’s a bang." He studied the list for an instant and pointed at one sequence. "Here he’s going from a U.S. site belonging to a Danish industrial concern to the Los Lobos League for Love and Understanding, the sex researchers. So that part of the path is bang!llulu."
Jerry groaned. "I wonder how long he searched to come up with that one?" Moira glared at him for the distraction.
"Anyway," Danny went on hastily, "I don’t recognize all these site names but from the looks of it this message traveled a couple of times around the planet. Here’s a site in Ukraine. That one’s in the science city just outside of Tokyo. This one is the Coke machine at Rochester Institute of Technology-they put the Coke machine on the Internet so the computer science majors could find out if there were any sodas in the machine without having to walk all the way to it."
"Personally I always preferred the one at Carnegie-Mellon," Jerry said. "It’s the original and it’s g
ot a graphical user interface."
Moira wasn’t about to let the conversation wander off into a comparison of computerized vending machines. "Well, can you trace him or not?"
Jerry rubbed his chin. "That’s hard. See, the path shown on a message isn’t completely reliable. You can fake some of it. It’s going to be hard to figure out where he’s connecting to the net, much less where he is in our world."
"Maybe not," Danny said. "If we can rig up a little perl script and plant it on all these sites we may be able to trace him back to where he’s really connecting."
Moira’s face lit up. "Can you do that?"
"Well, we’re going to have to get into a pile of computers, including that Coke machine, but…" His eyes focused on something far away. "Let me think about this and see what I can come up with. But we should be able to do it."
"And then?" Jerry asked.
"Then," said Moira grimly, "we go to his rescue whether he wants it or not."
Nine: A Bracelet, Some Chickens, and a Pretty Maid All In a Row
Don’t think of it as a distraction. Look at it as an income opportunity.
The Consultants’ Handbook
Wiz was hard at it again the next morning when Malkin stuck her head into his workroom.
"Someone at the door wants to see you."
The interruption made Wiz lose his place, but by now he was so used to it he just sighed and followed Malkin downstairs. There was a dumpy, middle-aged townswoman snivelling on the doorstep. From her posture and sniffling Wiz figured she was either very upset about something or she was suffering from a really bad allergy. As soon as Wiz appeared she grabbed one of his hands in both of hers.
"O Great Wizard, you see before you a poor woman in great affliction." Whatever it was, it wasn’t a problem with her lungs, Wiz thought. Her voice rattled the windowpanes. "Oh, the tragedy," she wailed. "Oh me! Oh me! O Wizard, I beg of you, save me."
"Save yourself and put a stopper in it," Widder Hackett snarled in Wiz’s ear. "That woman’s voice can peel paint and she’s got the brains of a titmouse besides."
Wiz had noticed the first and was willing to take the ghost’s word for the second. But by this time they were over the threshold and into the hall. Clearly the only way to get rid of their guest now was to hear her out.
"Uh yes, Mrs. ummm… ?"
"Grimmen," the woman proclaimed, without lowering her voice. "Mrs. Grimmen. I stand before you a vessel of woe, a pitiful shell, a-"
"Yes, but what happened?"
Mrs. Grimmen, her concentration broken, glared at him. "That’s what I’m telling you, Wizard. My gold bracelet has been stolen."
"Your bracelet?"
"You heard me. You ain’t deaf are you? Oh woe! Oh sorrow! Oh…"
"Fertilizer!" snapped Widder Hackett-or something very close to that, at any event.
Stolen? Wiz looked back at the stairs where Malkin was standing and raised his eyebrows in unspoken question. The tall woman pinched up her face as if she was insulted by the very thought and shook her head.
"Uh, look Mrs. Grimmen, I’m not really a finder of lost objects. I’m a consultant on dragon problems."
"Well, how do you know a dragon didn’t steal it?" the woman demanded. "It was gold after all."
"It was gilded pot metal," Widder Hackett amended.
"Yes, but…"
"Oh woe!" Mrs. Grimmen declaimed. "Oh sorrow! Oh alack!"
"Oh tell the ninny to look in the flour barrel," Widder Hackett said. "That’s usually where she’s hidden it when she can’t find it."
"Uh, have you looked in the flour barrel?"
Mrs. Grimmen stopped in mid-wail. "Why would I do a silly thing like that?"
"Well, maybe that’s where you left the bracelet."
The woman looked at him like he was crazy. "I didn’t leave it anywhere. It was stolen from me. Oh woe! Oh woe!"
"Look, just go home and look in the flour barrel, okay?"
"But it’s stolen away, my treasure. Oh woe! Oh woe!"
"Right," said Wiz, taking her by the elbow and gently guiding her toward the door.
"Sheesh! What next?" Wiz muttered as he turned away from the door.
"Chickens, most likely," said Widder Hackett in his ear. Wiz looked out the door and saw a man coming down the street with a live chicken in each hand.
He was scrawny and balding, with a big sharp nose and a receding chin. The way he strutted along with his head thrust forward put Wiz in mind of a chicken as well. Needless to say he stopped at Wiz’s front door.
"I’m here to see the wizard," the man announced.
"I’m the wizard," Wiz admitted.
"Kinda young ain’t you?"
"I was fast tracked in wizard school. Look, I’m kind of busy right now, so if you don’t mind…"
"Not so fast, Wizard. I’ve got a job for you."
"I’ve already got a job."
Ignoring that the man thrust the chickens in Wiz’s face. "Just look at them."
Since the birds were about level with Wiz’s nose there wasn’t any way to avoid it. From the way they struggled and cackled the chickens weren’t any happier about the situation than he was. Aside from that they looked just fine. Of course, Wiz admitted, the only thing he knew about chickens was they came in three kinds: Regular, extra-crispy and spicy Cajun style-plus kung pao if you ordered Chinese.
"What’s wrong with them?"
"Well, look at them! They don’t lay hardly any eggs and no matter how much I feed them they stay scrawny."
Wiz looked over his shoulder into empty air.
"Don’t ask me," Widder Hackett grated. "The old fool’s been to every witch and magician for miles around. No one knows what’s wrong with those stupid chickens."
"To be honest," Wiz said, "I don’t know that this is my kind of problem. I’m really here as a dragon specialist."
"You’re the municipal wizard ain’t you?" he demanded.
"Actually," Wiz began, "I’m a consultant."
"Wizard, consultant, what’s the difference? Point is you’re paid out of my taxes to solve our problems. Well, this here," he said, thrusting the protesting chickens forward, "is my problem. So earn your money and solve it!"
"Those aren’t dragons," Wiz pointed out.
"Any fool can see that, Mr. Wizard."
"Well, since they’re not dragons they are not my problem. I only deal with dragons. Goodbye." Before his visitor could say another word, Wiz put all his weight against the door and forced it closed. Outside, the man made a couple of loud remarks about "uppity employees" and then the sound of his footsteps and the cackling of his chickens receded in the distance.
"Good grief," Wiz muttered weakly.
"Better get used to it," Widder Hackett told him. "There’s going to be lots more of them. Word gets around you’re a wizard working for the council and you’ll have every lamebrain who thinks he’s got a problem camped out on your doorstep demanding you solve it." She snorted. "And there’s lots of lamebrains in this town, I can tell you that."
"But how am I supposed to get any work done if I’m constantly being interrupted by people with lost bracelets and sick chickens?"
"That’s nothing. Wait until the love-sick ones start coming to you. Rattle on for hours, they will, and not a word of sense to be found in any of it."
The way she said it left Wiz with a sinking feeling she was speaking from experience.
There was a knock at the door. Wiz whirled and jerked it open.
"I told you I can’t do anything about your damned… chickens," he finished weakly.
There was an angel on the doorstep. An angel in a drab brown dress.
"I beg your pardon, My Lord," the angel said in an angelic but timid voice. "I, I heard you are looking for a housekeeper."
Wiz realized his angel was actually a girl, perhaps eighteen years old. The plain brown homespun dress concealed a trim figure. Her skin was creamy white with just the right touches of pink. A fringe of wheat-gol
d curls peeked out from her bonnet. Her eyes were wide and blue as Wedgewood saucers.
Wiz finally managed to get the circuit from his brain to his mouth working again and closed his jaw. "Uh, well, yes," he said. "What’s your name?"
"Anna, My Lord."
"Well, I’m Wiz. Wiz Zumwalt. Come in, won’t you?" He stepped aside and managed to keep from bowing as the girl ventured over the threshold.
Wiz suddenly realized he had never interviewed anyone for a job other than a programming position and he wasn’t quite sure what the etiquette of hiring servants was.
"Ah, nice day isn’t it?"
Anna gave him a wide-eyed stare. "Of course, My Lord." The way she said it made him look a little closer. Not only were those eyes as blue as a Wedgewood china plate, Wiz realized, the owner possessed about as much intelligence as a china plate.
"My Lord…" Anna ventured tremulously. Then she stopped and gathered her courage. "My Lord, I know I am not very clever, but I will work hard."
"Oh, let her stay," Widder Hackett’s voice grated in his ear. "She can’t make more of a mess than the pair of you."
Wiz looked at the forlorn beauty and sighed. The first rule of successful housekeeping is you’ve got to be smarter than the dirt. Looking at her, Wiz figured Anna was probably brighter than the average dust bunny. They’d just have to live with the intellectually superior dust bunnies.
Besides, there weren’t any other applicants, and Wiz wasn’t going to get anything done with Widder Hackett complaining in his ear.
"All right," he sighed. "You’ve got the job."
"Oh thank you, My Lord!" Anna’s smile made her even more angelically beautiful. "You will not be sorry, I promise you."
"Uh, you’re not afraid working for a wizard?"
"Oh no, My Lord," Anna said innocently. "My granny was a witch. I’ve grown up around the craft, you see."
"That was Old Lady Fressen," Widder Hackett informed Wiz. "Child’s her only grandchild and she tried to teach her the Craft." Widder Hackett snorted. "And her with not the sense to come in out of the rain. Not that Old Lady Fressen was any great shakes when it came to brains, mind you." With that the ghost was off on a long, rambling, and none-too-favorable reminiscence about a dead former colleague.
