Night & Demons by David Drake Page A

pupils had a reptilian glitter.
    The news photographs hadn’t shown the long scar down Strange’s left cheekbone. There were many ways he could’ve been cut, but only one reason Howard could imagine that a man with Strange’s money wouldn’t have had the scar removed by plastic surgery: pride. It was a schlaeger scar, a vestige of the stylized duels with heavy sabers that still went on secretly at the old German universities. The purpose of a schlaeger bout wasn’t to defeat one’s foe but rather to get the scar as proof of courage and disregard for the laws which banned the practice.
    Mind you, Howard was pretty sure that Strange’s opponent had left his share of blood on the hall’s floor as well.
    “He’s a—” said Genie before either Howard or Wally could speak.
    “Iphigenia, go to your quarters at once,” Strange said in the same rustling tone as before. He didn’t speak loudly, but his voice cut through the buzz of electronics as surely as a mower would the flowery meadow that Howard thought of when entering the room. “You disturb Master Popple. I’ve warned you about this.”
    “But there’s nobody else to talk to!” Genie said. Though she complained, she walked quickly toward the door of her suite.
    Strange returned his attention to Howard. “I said,” he repeated, “who are you?”
    “Mr. Strange, I asked M—that is, Howard to help me—” Wally said.
    “I’m the volunteer you requested for your experiment, sir,” Howard said without the least suggestion of a quaver in his voice. “Wally here—Mr. Popple—noted that the agent won’t be able to carry a gun into the other realm, so my skill with a rapier is crucial.”
    “You know how to use a sword?” Strange snapped.
    “Yes, sir,” Howard said, standing very straight and keeping his eyes on the tycoon’s, hoping that would make him look open and honest. Even though Howard was telling the truth about the fencing, Strange’s whole tone and manner made it seem that everything he was being told was a lie.
    Besides considering that Strange might have him shot as a spy, there was the possibility that the Wizard of Fast Food would demand Howard duel him to prove his skill. Beating Strange would be dangerous—rich men were self-willed and explosive if they didn’t get what they wanted. Losing to Strange might be even worse, especially since Howard didn’t imagine he’d have buttons on his swords any more than the folk on the other side of the mica window did.
    “Since I’m an employee of Strangeco,” Howard continued, visualizing the Thief of Baghdad dancing over palace walls while monsters snarled beneath, “my devotion to you is already assured.”
    “You work for me?” Strange said. Then, as if he could remember each of the thirty thousand Strangeco employees worldwide, he said, “What’s your name?”
    The door swung almost shut behind Genie. “Howard Albing Jones, sir,” Howard said.
    “Assistant Marketing Associate in the home office,” Strange said. My God, maybe he did know all thirty thousand! “Devoted, are you? Pull the other leg, boy! But that doesn’t matter if you’ve got the guts for the job.”
    “Yes, sir, I do,” Howard said. He cleared his throat and went on, “I think I could honestly say I’ve been training all my life for this opportunity.”
    “You practice the Art also, Jones?” Strange demanded, the hectoring doubt back in his voice. “The Black Arts, I mean. That’s what they call it, the pigmies who adepts like me crush under our heels!”
    “Ah, I can’t claim to be an adept, sir,” Howard said. He couldn’t honestly claim to be anything but a guy who occasionally watched horror movies. As far as that went, he knew more about being a vampire than being a magician.
    “No?” said Strange. “Well, I am, Jones. That’s how I built Strangeco from a corner hot dog stand into what it is now. And by His Infernal Majesty! that’s how I’ll rule the world when I have the staff of