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  Skuggi opened both eyes and sat up, with some difficulty. His speaking voice was squeaky, a bit hoarse, like his meowing voice. "It wasn't my fault, old boy. It's that wizard you bought me from. You've heard of Mord Corpse-Eater in your lessons, I presume? One of the most powerful of the Dokkalfar wizards?"

  Agnarr gaped in amazement. "That was Mord Corpse-Eater? He seemed an ordinary traveling merchant to me."

  "He's an old enemy of Bjarnadr's. He's the one who has been sending your spells awry against Bjarnadr, and yes, he's been using me—and you—to do it, thanks to your generous gift of a hair lock. Unless you stop him, he'll kill your master, or put him into some shape he can't get out of for a long while."

  "How can you tell me this? Doesn't Mord hear you?"

  "No longer. Now that you've found my true name, I'm freed from him and bound to help you. He's not going to be pleased that you found out my name. He never expected you'd be able to, you know, and frankly, neither did I."

  Agnarr struck an offended pose, still congratulating himself on his unexpected good fortune. "Didn't you, now? After all, I come from the Galdur clan." Nervously he added, "What do you think he'll do?"

  "Oh, he's going to get ugly now. But don't worry, I'm going to help you. Right after I take a nap."

  "Nap! Skuggi, not now! Or should I say Trufla?"

  "All right, all right. We'll talk. There's little else to do until Bjarnadr cools off."

  Agnarr avoided Bjarnadr for the rest of the day, but Bjarnadr still had not cooled down by the midday following. He peered down at the hall and cocked his ears. Too much black smoke and shouting still issued from the great hall, and the loud thwacks and yelps from the apprentices did not bode well for his return. So Agnarr practiced the spells he knew, and some new ones with Skuggi prompting him, and they came off flawlessly. Skuggi crouched beside him, filling in the proper words when his memory faltered and sternly forbidding any shortcuts or doubling up of ritual gestures.

  "Learn the basics first," Skuggi reprimanded him. "Then you'll know for certain where you can trim the fat. You're terribly sloppy at summoning elementals. You've got to get better; elementals are a wizard's most valuable allies. I'll introduce you to Skotvopn, a nice little elemental who's looking for a wizard patron. He's young and inexperienced like you, but very eager. Those mossy old elementals Bjarnadr calls upon are used so often by so many wizards that they've gotten irritable about it."

  On the following day Bjarnadr's temper had returned to normal, so Agnarr slipped unobtrusively into the hall, filled to bursting with anticipation. With nonchalance, and Skuggi's prompting, he summoned Skotvopn. It was a clear and bright-burning elemental, instead of the sullen red fireballs Bjarnadr summoned, and Skotvopn was willing to be molded into any form, from great bolts like lightning to a shower of small burning darts. When Agnarr had exhausted his limited commands, Skotvopn returned obligingly to hover over the brazier in a brilliant column until Agnarr banished him. There were no tricky explosions, no counter-attacks, and no misguided sparks to burn holes in Bjarnadr's gown or beard. Agnarr stifled his urge to yell and jump up and down in elation, and maintained a modest demeanor even though the other apprentices were staring in awe and Bjarnadr was chortling and rubbing his hands with satisfaction. Hrifa's face was like a disappointed thundercloud, already sensing his inevitable decline into a dismally-distant second place behind Agnarr.

  Agnarr gloried in the benevolence of Bjarnadr's approving glances, and reveled in every bit of additional advice the master singled him out for, and wondered why he had waited so long to discover the joys of being the favored scholar. His present satisfaction was far superior to the wicked glee of pulling pranks.

  One evening when he had been released from his lessons early as a reward for doing so well, and he had returned to his tower to coax more advanced spells from Skuggi, Skuggi's keener ears caught the sound of wheels and hooves approaching Bjarnadrshol. He leaped to the window sill to sniff the night air, and his fur stood on end in a ridge from ear to tail tip.

  "Follow me, quickly!" Skuggi hissed, his eyes suddenly blazing. "Swear you'll do exactly at I tell you!" By now, Agnarr had learned not to question Skuggi's orders.

  "I swear," he muttered, wondering who was actually in charge in their familiar-apprentice relationship.

  They crept into the hall unnoticed as Bjarnadr was welcoming his guest, the highly distinguished wizard Godvildr, who visited the school several times a year. Not only was he famous and powerful, he was kind to lowly apprentices, always speaking to each one by name and giving him a small tasty gift. Agnarr put himself at the end of the receiving line, his mouth watering. They never got cakes, and these were filled with fruit and oozing with sweet juice. As he received his, Skuggi twined around his ankles, yowling as if he were begging, but to Agnarr's ears the voice was perfectly plain.

  "Throw it back in his face! If you take one bite of it, you'll fall fast asleep for two days!"

  Agnarr hated himself, but he hurled the cake back at the genial Godvildr, and everyone in the hall gasped in horror. Bjarnadr glared, disappointed and angry, with smoke curling out of his ears.

  "That's our Agnarr," he apologized stiffly. "He's going through a difficult stage right now. I fear it's only going to get worse for him." He hoisted one singed eyebrow significantly.

  "I don't know what came over me," Agnarr said faintly. "At times, my power is too great to control."

  Godvildr eyed Agnarr mildly and brushed the crumbs off his chin. "It's no matter," he said in a genial tone. "I was young once myself. Mischief seemed to come naturally."

  At the table, Skuggi climbed onto Agnarr's lap beneath the table as he always did and hooked choice bits off his plate for himself.

  "Skuggi!" he muttered. "You're ruining my entire life with these pranks! Don't make me do any more!"

  "Hush!" said Skuggi. "This is going to be interesting. Just do as I tell you and nothing.will go amiss. You swore an oath you'd do as I told you."

  "I must've been mad," Agnarr growled. "Why abuse poor old Godvildr?"

  "Agnarr!" Skuggi hissed, when the jug of mead was brought from the kitchen. "Don't let Bjarnadr drink that! It's poisoned!"

  A come-hither spell directed amiss jerked the cup out of Bjarnadr's hand and spilled it over his gown. He glowered straight at Agnarr, his lips moving, but Skuggi hastily put the words in Agnarr's mouth to avert whatever spell it was, diverting the energy into the roasted fowls before Godvildr, which burst into flame and turned to cinders.

  "A spirited youth, your Agnarr," Godvildr observed with a tolerant chuckle, starting to pour another cup of mead.

  Skuggi whispered, Agnarr spoke, and all that came from the flask was sand. The silence in the room was awful, with everyone gazing at Agnarr, the apprentices in terrified admiration, and Bjarnadr in smoldering rage.

  Godvildr only smiled sadly and shook his head. "He's got to get it out of his system somehow," he said. Another jug was called for, but Skuggi allowed this one to be poured and swallowed.

  As Skuggi predicted, the other apprentices all fell asleep soon after the sweet cakes were eaten at the end of the meal, leaving Agnarr and Skuggi to face the two wizards. They settled beside the fire to smoke their pipes. Godvildr leaned his staff against the wall, carved with runes and topped with a dark ruby knob.

  "Off with you to bed, Agnarr," commanded Bjarnadr. "And be certain to take that wretched cat with you. I'm going to deal with both of you tomorrow."

  "I believe I'll stay a bit longer," Agnarr said, and sat down on a stool opposite Godvildr. Skuggi hunkered down watchfully, his eyes upon the two wizards.

  "Let the lad stay," Godvildr said, amused. "I like his spirit. Perhaps you've met your match, Bjarnadr."

  "It's nothing I can't correct," Bjarnadr grunted, turning back his sleeves and removing his long pipe from his belt pouch. "Tomorrow, with a hazel switch."

  "That's a fine cat," Godvildr went on, offering his pouch to Bjarnadr to fill his pipe. "I had a cat much l
ike that myself once. A delightful companion he was, but he came to a very bad end, I'm afraid. Cats often do, it seems. Do try this leaf, Bjarnadr. It's the finest you'll ever know."

  Skuggi purred loudly and rubbed his chin on Agnarr's clenched fists. "The pipe," he muttered. "Get rid of It."

  Obligingly, Agnarr incinerated the pipe before Bjarnadr could draw one breath on it, blackening the wizard's face and littering his clothes with hot little embers and bits of shattered clay.

  Bjarnadr hopped up with an inarticulate roar of wrath and rapidly dusted away the fragments of his beloved pipe, and Agnarr knew he was doomed. He was about to flee for his life, but Skuggi tripped him up, sending him sprawling.

  "Well done, cat!" Bjarnadr seized Agnarr by the collar and shook him, while Skuggi yowled. "Now I've got you, Agnarr! Not one more ridiculous prank!"

  "Now, Agnarr!" Skuggi shouted, leaping up to knock Godvildr's staff out of his reach, just as he was reaching for it. A loud squall conveyed everything Agnarr needed to know, and it left him gasping in terror.

  Agnarr twisted around to face Godvildr, summoning a powerful voice from unknown depths. "Fara af stad, birtu! I know your name to be Mord Corpse-Eater! Now I command you to reveal yourself!"

  Godvildr's patient smile twisted into a sour grimace. With a smoky puff and a gust of ice-cold air, the appearance of Godvildr melted away, revealing Mord Corpse-Eater, clad in tattered black and bedecked with the amulets and tokens of the necromancer's trade. He flinched away, swatting at unseen darts of power released by Agnarr's words, trying to find his staff without taking his eyes off Bjarnadr and Agnarr.

  "Curse that cat!" he sputtered, stung in a dozen places at once as he groped for his staff, but Skuggi pounced on it and rolled it away. "Blast you, Bjarnadr!"

  "Gott kvold, draug-eater!" Agnarr shouted, and with a terrible shriek, Mord burst into flames. Bjarnadr belatedly bellowed spell words, raising his staff and blasting Mord with a force that threw him against the wall. He thrashed about, shriveling and shrinking, melting into a black pool of ichor, except for his cloak and staff and amulets, one of which was Agnarr's hair lock, tied up with colored threads. Bjarnadr lifted the magical objects carefully with the end of his staff and edged them into the fire, where they burned with crackling ferocity.

  "Well, then, that's the end of your hair lock," he said to Agnarr gruffly when he was finished. "I thought it was all another of your hoaxes until it was almost too late. You've saved me from becoming another of Mord's trophies. Or was it merely another accident?"

  Agnarr shrugged, his throat still dry as he looked at the puddle that had been Mord Corpse-Eater. Skuggi crouched at Agnarr's feet, protective even as his eyelids sagged toward a doze. "Skuggi told me. He's the one that saved you. Mord sent him here to work harm against you, but I learned his name and got control over him. Sort of."

  Bjarnadr blinked and snorted, a smile breaking through the soot. He dropped a companionable hand on Agnarr's shoulder and squeezed it fondly. "Well, perhaps. If you say he's your familiar, then I shall do my best to believe you. I'm amazed that you saw through his glamour spell and I didn't. But I knew from the start that I'd make a wizard of you—with a little work and patience. I never doubted you a moment, my lad. Oh, perhaps I did, once or twice. I think it's time you moved on to more interesting spells, and rooms of your own, away from these common, chattering numbskulls. And whatever you like from the kitchen, of course. I foresee taking an assistant one of these days, a talented youth with a great talent for magic. But only upon one condition—no more mysterious accidents."

  Agnarr glanced down at Skuggi, who blinked and said, "What, and spoil our fun?"

  Agnarr scowled at him and said firmly, "Of course. I'm in charge of my skills now. No more accidents, Meistari. You don't mind Skuggi, then?"

  "Of course not, my lad! Your cat is welcome anywhere!" declared Bjarnadr, bending down to thump Skuggi's back heartily, as if he were a dog, and followed this ill-conceived gesture with a gusty sneeze. "Perhaps he'll do something about the mice overrunning the scullery. Come along, we must have a serious talk about your future, now that you've just graduated from apprentice to assistant."

  Agnarr soon found himself in the enviable position of assistant. In this exalted capacity he was called upon to assign the menial duties of the school—none of which devolved to himself—to invent tests of skills, to administer thwacks to laggard apprentices, to sit at the Meistari's right at meals, and other agreeable duties. His skills far surpassed Hrifa's, whose life became one of disappointment and envy.

  Skuggi never again advised him to throw cakes in Godvildr's face, and his stripes and bars achieved even greater distances apart, rendering his runic belly completely indecipherable.

  Day of Discovery

  by Blake Cahoon

  There is a theory that cats are really aliens from outer space.

  Lyssa Tyler wasn't sure if that was true or not, but the way the long-haired black cat stared at her from across the crowded room, she knew it was definitely a sentient being.

  "David, do you see that cat over there? It keeps staring. at me."

  David Eisner tore his gaze from a nubile student, barely clothed in a red cocktail dress, to focus his attention on his professor's needs. "Cat?" He shoved the red-rimmed glasses up on his nose and gazed across the crowded room. "What cat?" He frowned, making his hawkish features appear even more birdlike. "Lyssa, you're being paranoid again," he scolded her. He glanced down at her hand, which clutched an empty martini glass. "You need a refill. I'll get it for you."

  She let him pry the glass out of her hand without a word, and while he melted into the crowd, in search of further refreshment, she headed in the opposite direction, toward the cat.

  She'd only gone two feet when Professor Drake literally bumped into her.

  "Oh, my dear, you must be more careful," the old man chastised her. He paused to glance around the room with sad eyes. "This whole thing is so tragic. Doctor Belson was a good man. His theory of molecular transference was brilliant, if a bit farfetched. Are you planning to continue his work?"

  The cat had disappeared, and Lyssa's concentration on the present was brought sharply into focus with Drake's prattling. She drew herself up to all five feet four inches of her height, and drew back her shoulders, bringing Drake's gaze to momentarily rest several inches below her blazing blue eyes.

  "First of all, Dr. Drake, the theory of molecular transference wasn't Ted Belson's. It was mine," she sputtered. "And it isn't farfetched. Einstein proved that there are other dimensions to be explored, if we knew how. And as for Belson being a 'good man,' that question is still out with the jury." A flash of red caught her eye, it matched the high crimson in her cheeks. "Do you see that Julie Anderson? Is that an appropriate way to dress? For god's sake, this is a damn wake, not some stupid faculty cocktail party!"

  Drake looked taken back; David was quick to intervene, as he came to the rescue, drinks in hand. "Sorry about that, Dr. Drake. You have to forgive Dr. Tyler. She's been under a lot of strain, with Dr. Belson's tragic accident and all. Here, have a martini." The graduate assistant shoved both glasses at the shorter man and took Lyssa by the arm. "Come on, Dr. Tyler. You've got a lot of work still to do on that project." He threw Drake an apologetic grin, and steered his red-faced, weaving professor out the door.

  The high laughter of Julie Anderson, in her cheap red dress, rang in Lyssa's ears, as David drove through the rain.

  "I suppose you slept with her, too," she accused David, breaking the silence. "I saw the way you looked at her at the party—I mean the wake." She laughed out loud. "Ha! Some wake! They all hated Ted. Because they were jealous. Because he was brilliant. They all hated him. All of them … except Julie."

  "And you."

  Lyssa glanced over at the young man, who would be handsome if he cut his longish blond hair and switched to contact lenses, instead of the peculiar-colored glasses. "Ted and I are history. I mean—were history. Ever since he stole my theo
ry." She fell silent for a moment, staring out beyond the windshield where the gentle slap-slap of the wipers was driving off the rain.

  Tall evergreens lined the lonely stretch of back road. "The police think I had something to do with the accident," her voice trailed off. "The car went over … the cliff … the brake lines …"

  "They don't have any evidence to prove that ridiculous theory," David said.

  "No …" she agreed. "Still, I suppose it doesn't look good that only three days after I publicly accused him of stealing my theory, the highly acclaimed physics professor, Theodore W. Belson, is sent over a cliff to his death." David glanced over at her, and caught her smiling. "Do you know what the 'W' stood for?"

  "No, what?"

  "Willard, like that movie about a rat. That's what Ted was—a rat."

  "Willard was the name of the man, not the rat." She turned to him, still smiling. David knew it was the smile of someone who'd had too much to drink; he should have known not to get her a fourth martini.

  "Are you sure?"

  "As sure as I know you didn't kill Ted. You were still in love with him."

  The smile faded, Lyssa turned to gaze back out the windshield, uncomfortable with David staring at her so. Suddenly, her face turned to horror as she pointed, screaming, "Watch out!"

  David turned and saw the flash of black streak in front of the car. He slammed on the brakes, throwing the car into a skid along the dangerous, wet road. The car screamed to a halt.

  "Did you hit it?" Lyssa was already unfastening her seatbelt, now totally sober, in light of the surge of adrenaline.

  "No, I don't think so. Where are you going?"

  "To make sure it's all right." She threw open the car door, and scurried out into the rain, searching the roadway and the nearby bush.

  "Lyssa, you're going to get soaked!" David yelled after her, as he climbed out. "What the hell was it, anyway?"

  "I think it was a cat," Lyssa yelled back, as she disappeared down the far embankment, slipping in the wet grass.