"That bastard,” Sham cursed and slurped more ambrosia. “Is there no way to determine its hiding place? Is there no Sage wise enough to scry it out for me?"
He took his feet from my back and unbuckled his sword belt with disgust. “This for whoever gets me the real sword.” The jewels upon the belt rang and sparked against the floor as he heaved Whenus's sword away.
Unburdened, I stood and retrieved the priceless scabbard from the floor. The sheathed weapon balanced between my hands, a perfect instrument of death. I longed to draw the blade and strike off Sham's head. But I'd be dead before I got it halfway free, either from Sham's dagger or one of his bullies’ swords.
Well and good, there were other ways to exact revenge.
Beyond us the dancing girls twirled, yet all felt distant as I faced Sham, the sheathed sword held to my chest.
"There is a spell of translocation I might perform, Most High. If you desire strongly enough the powers of the Sword of Ages.” I held his narrowed eyes without a qualm. “For a small boon I will do this."
"Done,” he agreed, “given you do as you promise."
I smiled. “Will you give this sword to your divine father's third concubine, that her son may own it when he comes of age?"
His companions gasped as one.
Sham's countenance darkened. “You jest."
"I promise you a life of immortality on earth. Does an immortal worry about a boy with no future?"
He blinked in surprise and looked anew at the scabbard I clutched. The cheek with his imperial dragon tattoo twitched a little. He judged my worth and also the changes in me since we'd met in that dark alley just over a year ago.
"I could make you do this—without reward,” he purred.
I lowered my voice. “Even though your promise was made and I do not fear to die?” I had power over him just then and I knew it. There was no one I loved in this place and certainly not in the blighted city of Hasp enough to worry for—except perhaps for Twelve Jade Sages, and they, just now, were untouchable.
The room was silent. All could see a change was taking place and I, young Rose Chameleon, was to be the Crocodile Sage's instrument.
"I have the power to bring the Sword to you, but you must be willing to accept all it offers without reserve. You must be willing to leave your country to whatever befalls, to go out into the world and take unto yourself unbridled wealth, everlasting acclaim, deathlessness and the adoration of every hero who crosses your path."
"Of course, I accept all that.” Avarice gleamed from Sham's oily face. His narrow chin hair waggled as he nodded with enthusiasm. His muscular frame tensed as though he planned to leap across the ages.
I was desperately glad he, and his bullies about me, could not read my heart. He had already set the first part of my spell with his agreement.
"Then we are agreed, Sham of Hasp that Glitters upon the Eastern Sea. Take out your dagger and nick your palm and mine and let our blood mingle to seal this bargain."
Sham eagerly did so while the entire company at his banquet of celebration watched us: Sage masters, serving acolytes, dancing girls, and royal companions. Sham did not know I already had jade blood running through my veins and that as our bloody palms clasped, the city of Hasp began to die. The spell the Crocodile Sage's book gave me was already flowing through the waterways of Hasp. They had one moon. Whores, assassins, beggars, common folk, merchants, sailors, visitors, and beasts. All must leave or turn to stone.
"Now,” I said, “speak after me: I take on the geas of the Sword of Ages for honor and for good. I do this with good will until one comes who shall willingly accept it from me.” He did not see the smile teasing the corners of my mouth.
"I take on....” Sham repeated all after me and added, “You can't imagine I would ever willingly give such a sword to anyone."
"Your choice.” I shrugged and snapped my fingers.
* * * *
One might drain a cup of ambrosia in greater time than it took Sham to transform into the Sword of Ages. His motor skills went first. His fingers fused together, then his legs. His arms snapped to his body. The last to go were his eyes and his mouth. They became the pieces of jet and diamond that adorned his pommel. Sham's ruby garments became the color of his leathern grip.
I too was transforming by then. Dropping to my arms and knees, sprouting a tail. Turning to jade.
Sham's screams of outrage continued throughout his change.
He went unanswered. As a mighty sword he was far more impressive than ever he'd been as a Prince. No doubt each potential hero who took him up and used him would believe him a wonder.
Before my powers became compromised by my own change, I turned to my friend Newt, who had also been called to serve at table.
"Take him up, friend Newt, for now he is yours and no other's. Use him as best you may, Newt of Hasp. And when you are done with him, drive him deep into a stone for the next hero to find, for it is he who is immortal and filled with power and not the one who bears him.
"Legends will come about because of him and bards will sing the names of those who wield him for good.
"Now go to the Blue Dragon Pleasure House and find a bath girl named Jasmine and tell her to leave Hasp as soon as she may. Go with her to the Emperor's beloved third concubine and her beloved babe. Take them away with you and this with my heart upon it."
While I could yet move, I gave him King Whenus's sword.
* * * *
Until Sham, First Heir, learns to honor others; until he has, with the powers I have given him, raised up the last hero on this earth, he and I will remain as we are: I a stone chameleon encased in rose jade and Sham trapped in steel as the Sword of Ages.
Here I wait among my jade kindred. The Crocodile Sage sits beside me, his curse delivered on Hasp that glittered in wealth and in might upon the Eastern Sea. Hasp is no more. Not even a memory. The sands of time have broken both the shore and the tide on which it stood. The waters have retreated far to the west and dunes now cover our great Dome of Doves.
Yet you, young traveler with the sword of Whenus, King of Ur, you who are many ages descended from a beloved son of a beloved third concubine, you have found me. You have heard me as none before.
Will you help the Thirteen Sages who sit before you?
If so, look into my eyes: the rose-jade eyes of Nameless Chameleon.
Look, if you dare.
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Poetry: PHYSICS by Annabelle Beaver
If time is infinite,
You will, at some point,
Become a pterodactyl.
I'm sorry in advance, my sweet.
And I will, of course, dance around you carrying
A duck.
—
After which,
We will sit down
On a meteorite
And I will write
This poem again.
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Novelet: MISTER SWEETPANTS AND THE LIVING DEAD by Albert E. Cowdrey
Judging from the submissions we receive nowadays, the dead just don't want to stay dead. They keep returning in one fashion or another. Albert Cowdrey writes frequently about ghosts but this time out he treats us to a lighthearted tale concerning another sort of undead character.
When Ted Dance called Five Star Protective Services with a plea for help, we were already up to our ears in work. I'd signed a contract to provide guards for a big society ball; and just as we were gearing up for that job, a dog wrangler at our K-9 affiliate coked himself up and neglected to feed his charges. So they ate him. Worse yet, our alpha dog died of an overdose, and I'd always been fond of Bruno.
With all that going on, normally I wouldn't have accepted a new client, but Ted and me go back a long way. And besides, there was all that wild stuff I'd seen on the morning news—famous author, rumored lover shot to death, etc.
So half an hour later I was in Copacabana Beach, parking at the curb in front of his Biscayne Boulevar
d mansion. I couldn't pull into the drive because the security gate had been knocked off its hinges, so I climbed over the wreckage and under a yellow strip of crime-scene tape and rang the doorbell. An eye looked at me through the peephole, a Latina voice yelled, somebody yelled back, and finally Marialena or whoever opened the door, led me upstairs and seated me in a window alcove. There in about ten minutes Ted joined me.
Basically he hadn't changed much since the old days at Walt Whitman Consolidated High—nice-looking guy, with sort of an anxious-to-please air about him, like a really good waiter. But now his face had a hunted look, forehead puckered, wrinkles around the eyes. Lots of my clients look like that.
We shook hands and he sat down at the other end of the tufted window seat, licked his lips, and folded his arms. Lots of my clients do that, too.
"Manny,” he said. “Good to see you again. Only been about twenty years, right?"
"Don't seem that long, Ted. From all I hear, life's been good to you."
"It was—until this idiot decided to kill me. Crocodile was doing okay, but...."
"They're a competent bunch over at Croc."
The best way to run down the competition is to describe them as “competent.” Makes people wonder if they can't afford something a bit better.
"Competent,” he said, “isn't good enough for what I'm up against. I need a friend."
"What are you up against, exactly?"
Ted turned pink, like an embarrassed schoolboy. He looked at the floor and scuffed his Nordstrom loafers. “See...Manny...last year, something really, really rotten happened to me. I fell in love."
"Tell me about it,” I said in my warm Father Flanagan voice. “In my business, I've heard it all."
"You've never,” he assured me, “heard anything like this."
* * * *
America's hottest, gayest novelist put on a rueful grin and unfolded his arms. “Thing was, I had my life all arranged. And then at a raunchy party in West Palm, I met a guy named Zane Cord."
Ted explained that in recent years his lifestyle had veered toward the humdrum. He practiced safe sex invariably instead of just usually. Had only one lover at a time. Lectured to women's clubs on titillating topics like “Fiction Gay and Straight.” Contributed to good causes like fighting AIDS and feeding Africa. Served as chairman of the Copacabana Beach Community Fund. In short, he became a model citizen.
He also became nearly dead of boredom. Worse, he was running out of plot ideas shocking enough to grab his increasingly unshockable public. What the heck could he base his next book on—his volunteer work for UNICEF? Maybe, without knowing it, he was ready to meet Zane Cord.
"Not a nice guy, huh?” I hazarded.
"Only,” he said grimly, “the slimiest creature to crawl the Earth since the Age of Salamanders. In spite of that, or maybe because of it, I was obsessed with him."
"Why'd he decide to kill you? I mean, I saw the piece about yesterday's excitement on the news, but—"
"There's only one good thing about sexual obsession, Manny. It doesn't last. One day I woke up and looked at Zane lying in bed and even his toes disgusted me. I told him it was over and offered him a nice parting gift. He said he wanted a million dollars, and when I laughed at him, he threatened to kill me. I called in my yard man and together we threw Zane—along with his clothes, most of which I'd given him—into the middle of Biscayne Boulevard. I changed the locks and the PIN for my alarm system, hired Croc to guard the place, and figured the episode was over. Yeah, right.
"Yesterday Zane cooked his tiny brain on something—probably meth, an old favorite of his—rammed a new Porsche I'd also given him through the gate, and came charging out, gun in hand. I was writing when I heard the crash, followed by two shots. I ran to my bedroom window, and down in the patio—well, it was quite a tableau. Zane was lying half-in and half-out of the Porsche with an automatic still in his hand. The guy from Croc was standing there with this huge kind of Magnum Force pistol in a two-handed grip. He'd just put a bullet through Zane's head."
A little silence ensued. “So if the guy's dead, what's the problem?” I queried.
"The problem is, dying hasn't stopped him. Last night I looked out of my bedroom window and there he was, standing at the corner of Seventeenth Street and Biscayne, watching the house. He's still after me."
"Well, Ted...I have to say, that is a new one."
* * * *
I was headed back to my office in Boca Raton when a squall line blew in off the Atlantic Ocean. Creeping along at twenty m.p.h., with the car ahead of me fading to a shadow and the windshield wipers beating like metronomes, I had plenty of time to think about Ted sane and Ted wacko.
We met in high school. When he decided to come out—which surprised nobody—one of our muscular Christians threatened to beat him to death, as a warning to others not to get born queer. I was head of the Walt Whitman Karate Klub, so Ted hired me as his bodyguard. I offered to break a few of the Christian's legs and arms, and he backed off. Ted was grateful, and when he found out my grades were tanking, he became my tutor, piloting me between the reefs of Shakespeare and the shoals of Advanced Algebra all the way to graduation—which I wouldn't have attended that year, except for him.
And now, two decades later, here we were again. Just like before, except that in the meantime he'd gone crazy. Well, sex has that effect on some people. And it wasn't all bad. Five Star Protective Services (Manfred Riordan, President) now had the easiest job on Earth—protecting a client from a dead guy. I mean, talk about an easy gig!
All I had to do was make sure this Zane bozo really was dead. An amateur will look at a sprawling body with a lavishly bleeding head wound and think, Wow, that's the end of him. In reality, the vic's scalp has only been creased and in due course he wakes up with ten stitches, a terrific headache, and a lust for revenge. I made a mental note to check out the alleged death, then dismissed Ted from my thoughts.
The big issue of the moment for Five Star was a Halloween charity costume ball the financier Jonas Whelk was throwing to open his Museum of Oriental Art. A long-term security contract was on the line, so that was bread and butter, while Ted's little problem was merely pickles and olives. I decided to check things out at the museum, floated down an exit ramp, surged through flooded streets and parked by the ornate double doors with the big bronze W's. A wet banner strung across the façade announced the party's theme, Florida at Five Hundred Minus Five. Meaning that those VIPs invited to the shindig should dress to celebrate the 495 years since Ponce de León waded ashore at Daytona. Smaller letters promised All Proceeds Will Be Donated to Charity through FBCCA. At the time I had no idea what the letters meant, except that if Whelk was involved, it must be a scam.
I was admitted by one of my own employees, who gave me a fishy look, as if unsure whether I was his real boss or merely a clever counterfeit. I spent a few minutes viewing the atrium, where workmen were unrolling a red carpet across a floor of gleaming fake-marble tiles. Then I took a stroll through the whole museum. The last time I'd seen it, it had been just an empty shell, but now the halls and galleries were crammed with Japanese screens and prints, antique Chinese dishware, big ugly vases, and statues of Hindu gods and demons.
My last stop was the nerve center of the security system, a basement office with a dozen flickering monitors and a drowsy rent-a-cop who dropped his comic book and came to attention when I walked in. I decided to post a response team of two guys here, while I put on a costume and circulated among the guests. I also planned to station one guy in uniform in each gallery, plus two more with dogs in the parking lot. Your average thug isn't much interested in Sung pottery, but cars are catnip and prosperous-looking people are always fair game for a mugging.
On the way out, I ran into Jonas Whelk himself. My wife Shelley once accused me of not liking the man, which was true but insufficient. In fact, I hated the bastard—his long skinny neck, his ball-bearing eyes, his handshake that felt like a deceased moray eel. He'd made his money as
a hedge-fund manager, finding that safer than piracy off the Horn of Africa, and after the fund collapsed and ruined lots of people but not him, he moved to Florida's Gold Coast and began to reinvent himself as a cultural leader. Someplace along the twisting road of life he'd begun buying Oriental art, believing it would hold its value when the world economy collapsed, as he rightly expected it to. And so the Whelk Museum was born. He promptly buttonholed me and started bragging about the famous people he'd invited to his grand opening ball.
"We'll have the Governor and the editor of Art News and the famous religious guy Dolly Lama and Chelsea Varoom the famous pop star, assuming she's outta rehab by then. The famous novelist Ted Dance is gonna make a pitch for the FBCCA—that's my outfit, the Fund for Blind Crippled Children with AIDS. He thinks it's a charity instead of a tax write-off! How about that? How can he be so smart and at the same time so dumb? I think the AIDS bit musta got to him. He's doing it because he's a fag."
I escaped outside. The squall line had passed, the Florida sun had come out, the temp was several hundred degrees, and the air smelled like glue. I skipped breathing until I was in my car with the A/C on. I decided to clear Ted's problem off my plate first, so back at the office I assigned a new employee named Bliss to guard his house overnight.
Then I contacted a mole I employ at Crocodile Security Services, a guy named Tony Dantoni, and told him I'd like a private word with whichever of Croc's operatives had shot Zane Cord. In the musical accents of Bayonne, NJ, he replied, “So whatchoo wanna know?"
"You did it, Tony? Great. Tell me about it."
"Subject fired oncet at me. Then I got him right between the eyes. Bang. Or rather, since I was using my old three-fifty-seven, kaboom."
"You sure he was dead?"
"Well, he had a hole in his forehead the size of a Susan B. Anthony dollar kern. Also, I was using hollowpernts, so I assume he had bits of Teflon bouncing around inside his skull. Yeah, I'd say he was dead."
FSF, July-August 2010 Page 14
