Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  I need to rig the front gate to close on its own. I’ll get to it.

  One of the guys in the car nodded in response to her glance. That told me they could hear us. Whoever this Veronica Stuart was, she was wearing a wire. It’s never good news when someone wants to interview you without telling you it’s being recorded. My paranoia climbed a notch.

  “Your house seems to have—” she began, but I held up a hand.

  “Stop right there. Your friends are listening in and, for all I know, recording. That’s an invasion of my privacy unless you have a warrant. Are you a law enforcement agent, and do you have a warrant?”

  “They aren’t—”

  “And now you’re about to lie to me,” I interrupted. “You have ten seconds to remove whatever it is that’s relaying our conversation. Ten. Nine. Eight.”

  She stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read. I made it to three before she turned around and banged out through the screen door.

  I should probably get a bell for the screen door, too. It’s a thought.

  I smiled at the guys in the car, waved in a friendly fashion, and shut the door. I heard the engine start and they drove away. I strolled down to the front gate and closed it.

  Now there was the question of the other shoe and how hard it was going to hit when it dropped.

  Back inside, I put my chair next to the fireplace and put my feet up.

  “Firebrand?”

  Yo.

  “Thanks.”

  Just doing my part, Boss.

  “Good work. Any ideas about our not-exactly-guest?”

  I didn’t get anything from her.

  “She was close enough to hear, wasn’t she?”

  Oh, yes. I can hear people “talking” as far out as the street; not so much when they’re thinking to themselves. But I didn’t get anything off her.

  “Hmm. Any idea why?”

  I’m not sure. My first guess is a spell to hide her thoughts, but around here…

  “Yeah, but there was other magical manipulation going on. I’ll keep an eye out if I see her again.”

  Next time, invite her in, Boss. Sit her down in a chair near the fireplace. I’ll figure it out.

  “I’ll see what I can do, assuming the next time doesn’t involve them burning the place to the ground.”

  I’m okay with that, too.

  “I’m not.”

  Oh. Right. By the way, are you going to do anything about the Fabulous Four and the barn?

  “Nope. I’m okay with it as long as they don’t do anything destructive to themselves or the barn.”

  What about Bronze?

  “I doubt their ability to do anything to her even if they manage to bring the whole barn down in flaming ruin. Besides, she can deal with anything short of high explosives without my help.”

  Good point.

  I had a sudden vision of Bronze eating a stick of dynamite and suddenly belching fire. Would it work that way? Probably not, but what would happen? Would she enjoy a little dynamite or other explosives? Would they be like candy, or like spices? Fire-breathing golem biology is weird.

  “Still,” I mused, “now that you mention it, I guess I should let them know I know they’re there. They should be aware they’ll be held responsible if they break anything or burn the barn down.”

  If you say so.

  “Now lets get the ashes out of the fireplace and I’ll stack some more wood for you.”

  I love you, Boss.

  “No, you don’t.”

  No, I don’t, Firebrand admitted, but I like you, respect you, and fear you.

  “That’ll do.”

  I did some cyber-shopping that afternoon. Chemical supply houses are good about sending you pretty much anything that’s legal to own. As a result, I have a collection of metal ingots on the way.

  My thinking on the matter, after considerable cogitation, runs like this.

  Magnetism can be generated by using electricity; it’s actually inevitable. But without getting into the Pauli exclusion principle, fermions, and quantum mechanics, let’s just say that magnets are on the border between science and magic to begin with. They could be said to alter the shape of space slightly, similarly to gravity, making it possible for materials with magnetic properties to manifest those properties.

  That’s wrong, by the way, but it’s a useful way to think about it

  What if some metals make “space fields” the same way iron makes a magnetic field? Or, perhaps, could be persuaded to do so if I “magnetize” them properly with a spell? I could warp space with an array of “warp magnets” and weaken it. In theory, an area of weakened space would be easier to punch a hole through. This means a gate spell would take less energy to cast. With suitable tuning, I might even be able to put a warp magnet setup on both ends and not even need a spell! Or, more likely, it would be easy to sustain once it opened.

  My other idea is that magic, itself, might be generated through a field effect. Some fundamental field might generate magical energy the same way magnets can generate electricity. I don’t know what that fundamental field would be, but I should be able to see the energy it produces. If I can use magic to create that fundamental field, it would tell me something about magical energy.

  Of course, I doubt an iron core will be the thing I need to make such a field. Hence the elemental ingots I’ve ordered. A good chunk of the periodic table is available for sale to the general public. If even one of the solid elements can be used in such a fashion, that could be the key to building something like a generator—one to produce magical energy instead of electricity!

  That would be far, far better than my spells to convert other sorts of power into magical energy. The trick is finding something that will do it. I’ll be trying everything I can to see if they have space-altering or magic-generating potential. I can hardly wait to get started!

  I’m going to have to wait, though, until the delivery guy shows up. Yes, they still have delivery guys. Apparently they only deliver something by automated drone if it’s under ten pounds and doesn’t require a signature. Anything else still has to be handled by a human. I’m not sure the human drives the truck, though. The route mapping and driving might be done by computer.

  With my recent visitors on my mind, I kept an eye out the back. I really ought to install security in the barn, like a motion sensor or some cameras, or something. Come to that, I should do more for the house, too… but, damn it, living in a fortress only goes so far! Once it becomes obvious it’s a fortress, people treat it like one.

  I need to work on blending in better, I guess.

  Shortly after school, the Fabulous Four regrouped in their clubhouse—my hayloft. They’ve been out there pretty consistently, but they started getting noisy. I wandered out to see if I could find the reason.

  I think they’re trying to be a band. Luke plays drums—that is, he provides a beat on anything that sounds good when you hit it. During the occasional neighborly chit-chat, I’ve been told he has a congenital nerve disorder that keeps him from hearing properly. It doesn’t seem to bother him. Maybe he’s on drums so he doesn’t have to follow what anyone else is doing. He lays down a beat and everyone else sticks with it.

  Edgar has an electronic keyboard and apparently knows how to play it. I’m not surprised; Susan strikes me as the sort to make him take piano lessons at an early age. Gary has an electric guitar that’s too big for him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to play it. It doesn’t make much sound because he doesn’t have anywhere to plug it in up there. This is kind of a good thing, considering how he plays. Patricia sings and plays the violin. You wouldn’t think she could sing that well with a violin tucked under her chin, but she does a fantastic job of it. She’s easily the most talented musician of the Four, followed by Edgar, then Luke, then Gary.

  Yes, the deaf kid on drums is a better musician than Gary. That tells you a lot about Gary’s musical talent. The other Three of the Four don’t mind, which tells you a lot about
the group as a whole.

  Despite Gary’s fumbling, I’ve heard teenagers in a garage do far worse. In fact, I haven’t heard many do better. If they need a place to play and practice, I don’t have any objections to the barn. Imagine the problems of trying to have band practice in someone’s house. I can’t see the Four trying to have a jam session in Gary’s living room. Considering the noise, I doubt any of their parents would be pleased.

  I resolved to get some of that spray-foam insulation to cut down on the escaping noise and to run some lights up there. They could probably use at least two power outlets, as well. In the meantime, I unplugged the minifridge and taped the door closed; I didn’t want things falling out. With the thing over one shoulder, I climbed up the ladder to the hayloft. It was strong enough to hold me, being built into the structure of the front wall.

  There’s another reason I loaned Larry that ladder. It’s a long, wooden thing I could easily crush by accident. Someday, when I do roof maintenance on the barn, I’ll need to get one of those extending aluminum jobs. A heavy-duty one—something rated for industrial work.

  Whistling, I made my way up. When I rose into view, they fell silent and watched me. I put down the fridge, untaped it, and draped the power cord out between the wall of the loft and the rafters of the ceiling.

  I should have brought an extension cord. Humming the tune they were trying to play, I went back down, got the long cord, a shorter cord, a power strip, and some other materials. Ten minutes’ work had the heavy-duty cord semi-mounted on the wall all the way to the ground. I plugged everything in and went back up to make sure it was all working properly.

  They never said a word the whole time. They watched and stayed out of the way.

  Once assured the fridge was in good working order, I climbed down and paused at the main door to the barn. I shouted up to the loft.

  “When the milk runs out, put the bottle in the bucket by the back door!”

  Then I went back into the house. They were now aware I knew they were out there. Whether or not that was a good thing, from their point of view, was an open question. I heard Gary’s electric guitar much more clearly from then on, though. That was not a good thing. I also realized I’d have to pick up some buckets of various sizes for Luke.

  Maybe he has a drum set at home. He might move it, now that they won’t worry about me finding out. We’ll see.

  Later, after dark, I noticed the plastic milk bottle in the bucket by the back door. I took a full one up to the loft and checked on Bronze and her charging spells. She was doing well and her spell seemed to be holding at a fixed level. Bronze isn’t only a flammivore—yes, it’s a word. I refer you to Professor H. Dumpty, of Wonderland—but also a thaumivore. She eats flammables and thaumaturgic energy. The energy in her personal zone was holding at the same level; Bronze was siphoning off everything the zone took in beyond that. Which, really, was what the thing was for…

  Since it was after dark, I smelled my visitor before I saw her. Perfume, hair conditioner, makeup, sweat, deodorant, synthetic fabrics, and some leather—all the scents of a modern woman. I was glad I was wearing my own makeup; I don’t step foot outside the bathroom without putting my face on. I still need to get those contact lenses, though. Mental note. At least I had my sunglasses. I put them on. Weird is better than inhuman.

  “Mister Smith?” she called. I realized then I’d forgotten to turn on the lights. It’s an easy mistake to make when you can’t see darkness. She stood in the doorway, framed in moonlight, trying to see.

  “Hello, Veronica. You know you’re trespassing,” I observed.

  “It’s important.”

  “If you’re still wearing a wire, for legal reasons please be aware you’re a trespasser and I feel threatened. I will defend myself.”

  She paused. I could see her spirit ripple with a series of emotions. First surprise, then a quite reasonable fear. For all she knew, I had a pair of six-shooters and itchy trigger fingers.

  “I’m not wearing a wire,” she assured me.

  “You expect me to take your word for it? Besides, for all I know you have a horse pistol in that handbag.”

  She raised one hand, gestured, and spoke a phrase. I half-recognized some of the sounds as the verbal equivalents of the local magical alphabet. A ball of light, about the size of a golf ball and glowing like a Christmas tree light, rolled through the air and hovered over me.

  “Will you talk with me now?” she asked, smiling.

  I snapped my fingers. The light burst into sparks and vanished. So did her smile. I regarded her more intently, shifting my vision specifically to look for magic. It’s kind of like that trick I did when I was human and looking for a particular color. If you’re after, say, a red jellybean in a mixed bowl, you shift your vision to highlight the red. This sort of thing is like that, only orders of magnitude greater.

  She was wearing more than one spell. That wasn’t surprising, it was shocking. In this day and age? In this magic-scarce environment? Nothing leaped out as overt or powerful, but the fact of their presence spoke volumes.

  “Give me a good reason to talk with you,” I suggested. “So far, you’re still a trespasser. And if your friends close in, you’ll discover how I’m armed and whether or not I actually planted land mines. So tell them to back off.”

  I didn’t sense anyone close by, but she had friends with her earlier. It was only a guess, but it was a good guess, and worth a try.

  “I’m alone.”

  “Who lied to whom? You to me, or them to you?”

  She cocked her head at me, thinking. She took a step back, outside the barn door, and glanced to either side. Her face betrayed nothing as she said something under her breath. It sounded like “He knows you’re there. Back off.” I didn’t hear a reply.

  I examined the spell along the side of her head. It resembled a scrying spell in some ways, but seemed only to transfer vibrations, not light. Not too complicated, come to think of it, but more power-intensive than a vision spell. A magical headset!

  Why didn’t we use this sort of thing in Rethven/Karvalen? Possibly because they developed spells to see far away, first, then their talking spells evolved from that. Still, anyone who wanted to make a telephone spell wouldn’t have a hard time, but they don’t think that way. Almost everyone is more of an “accept ancient authority” mindset than a “let’s make it up!” sort. If the Elder Magicians created a spell, we should go find it, not fool around with inventing one from scratch. Even wizards are vulnerable to that type of thinking. If they find an especially effective spell, they tend to memorize it and be done with it.

  “That’s better,” I said. “Now, maybe you’d like to explain why you’re on my property without my permission? You know, all the usual stuff. Who you are, who you work for, why you’re here, what you want, all that.”

  “That’s rather a long list,” she purred, smiling. Her posture shifted subtly into a more relaxed stance. She played with an earring, smiling at me and biting one corner of her lower lip slightly. Doubtless, any man alive would have considered her, if not for Miss Right, at least Miss Right Now. I found it artistic; she would have done well as a piece of sculpture.

  I also felt the prodding of a mind-affecting spell. It was easy to see she set it off from her earring. A glamour, a charm—something designed to make me more agreeable. The only problem, from her point of view, was it relied on human reactions to her. It enhanced her sex appeal, made her more attractive. Against anyone living, it might work.

  “Perhaps we could go inside and discuss it?” she suggested.

  “Or you can have a seat right here and explain,” I replied, ignoring her sexy pose. It was nighttime; I was dead. Necrophilia doesn’t work in reverse, thank you. Instead, I kicked a work stool in her direction. “You have earned zero goodwill and at least two counts of animosity already, what with your attempts to influence my mind. You also do not barge into someone’s home. Not unless you are prepared to immediately get into a full-scale
conflict.

  “Now, you’re either too stupid to realize you’re a failure as a seductress or too vain to accept it. Your only remaining hope of having a civilized conversation depends on you putting on your professional and businesslike face, followed by direct, informative answers. If you’re not prepared to do that, come back some other day when you’ve scrubbed off your makeup and are wearing sensible shoes.”

  Veronica clouded up immediately as I spoke. She was still beautiful, but it was somewhat spoiled by the way her face contorted. I wondered if a man had ever told her she was stupid or vain. Since she obviously had some magical training and talent, it might not have ended well for him, no matter how comfortable the lily pad he now occupied.

  “You think you have power, don’t you?” she seethed. “You arrogant bastard! You have no idea what you’re dealing with!”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “That’s why I’m willing to listen to you, cliché threats and all. Now, either act like an adult and a professional or go tell whoever you work for that you failed your diplomacy skill check. I don’t care which.”

  “You don’t give me orders!”

  “And I don’t hit ladies, either, but I have dismembered a screaming bitch. Want to see how far off my land I can throw you? Would you rather bounce or skid?”

  “You—!”

  “Hey!” I called, loudly. “If you can hear me, can you please tell her to grow up? Or switch places with her? I need someone who knows their manners, please!”

  Veronica’s face went through a series of changes. She looked as though she was about to speak a couple of times, but finally settled down to a seething glare. It was a good glare, and I’ve been skewered by several. She stalked off into the night. I thought she was a little awkward in those heels. Stylish, certainly, but not practical.

  I climbed up on Bronze and waited.

  Firebrand? I thought, directing the impulse into the house.

  Yo.

  What’ve you got?

  Nobody. If there’s anyone around, they’re being cagey, Boss; I couldn’t even hear her side of the conversation. But I have an idea.