He
screamed and lurched backward. I sprang to the safety of the mantelpiece.
Roaring what I presumed were filthy curses
(they were in Almaine so I couldn't be sure), he snatched a dagger from his
belt. Master Ambrosius moaned and closed his eyes. The Baron swiped his sleeve
across his bloody face and turned to look for me. I froze, but he spotted me
and flung the dagger with a snarl. It clipped an ear and stood quivering in the
plaster. I squealed, more in shock than in pain.
"No!" screamed Margaret. "Leave
my cat alone, you animal!" She swept up the only weapon to her hand, the
empty ale pot, and clouted the Baron across the back of the head. It wasn't
much of a blow, but he was off balance from the dagger-throw as well as more
than half drunk. He staggered forward and fetched up against the fireplace.
I snarled and lashed my tail. It caught the
tiny flask and decanted it squarely on top of the Baron. The makeshift cork
dissolved at once, and the Alkahest streamed out onto his forehead. He
screamed, a thin, high, burbling shriek more befitting a dying vole. His head
simply vanished. It was the strangest sight. All that spectacular
wickedness—melted. Soon there was nothing left but an oily little puddle; then,
nothing but an oddly-shaped hole in the hearth.
Margaret was simply splendid. She pulled
herself together and restored her garments and person to their customary
neatness, washing off every trace of the Baron's touch. (I think she could have
done with more washing; but time was short, and she is only human.) She
straightened the room and fetched a rug from her father's bedchamber to cover
the hole in the floor. She scolded and bullied Master Ambrosius into packing
his personal possessions and alchemical impedimenta, ruthlessly discarding
anything that could be replaced later. We caught the stagecoach with minutes to
spare.
We are two days past the Almaine border, and
so far there has been no hue and cry after us. This is a pleasant inn in which
to recuperate and make plans. I am sprawled on a broad windowsill, enjoying the
spring sunshine and toying with a chicken wing, idly eavesdropping on my
people. Master Ambrosius wants to go to some place called Wittenberg which is famous for scholarship. He has
heard that there is a vacant professorship in alchemical studies there, and he
wants to apply for it. Margaret, who has developed a good deal of spirit
lately, thinks it would be rank folly to return to Almaine lands and is roundly
saying so. She wants to go somewhere warm and sunny, perhaps Languedoc , which she argues persuasively is a
treasury of Saracen lore. (The Saracens were great ones for alchemy.)
Warm and sunny Languedoc sounds just fine to me. It borders the Middle Sea ; surely there will be fish.
My people rise from the luncheon table. Master
Ambrosius announces his intention of exploring the town in search of bookshops.
Margaret, who has a more proper appreciation of leisure, comes to curl up on
the window-sill beside me and bask in the sun. She ruffles my ears with a
gentle hand.
"Good old Quincunx. Enjoy your comforts,
my lad; you've earned them. If you had not chanced to knock over that bottle on
top of the Baron, heaven knows what would have become of us!"
Dear Margaret! So wise, and yet so foolish in
some ways. Surely she should have realized by now that cats seldom do things by
chance—and we never, never, NEVER knock things over by accident.
CIRCUS
by Jayge
Carr
Jayge Carr has had
four novels published, and stopped counting short stories at fifty. On the
personal front, she is a native-born Texan with pioneer roots, married with two
grown children, has a degree in physics, and worked for NASA as a
screamed and lurched backward. I sprang to the safety of the mantelpiece.
Roaring what I presumed were filthy curses
(they were in Almaine so I couldn't be sure), he snatched a dagger from his
belt. Master Ambrosius moaned and closed his eyes. The Baron swiped his sleeve
across his bloody face and turned to look for me. I froze, but he spotted me
and flung the dagger with a snarl. It clipped an ear and stood quivering in the
plaster. I squealed, more in shock than in pain.
"No!" screamed Margaret. "Leave
my cat alone, you animal!" She swept up the only weapon to her hand, the
empty ale pot, and clouted the Baron across the back of the head. It wasn't
much of a blow, but he was off balance from the dagger-throw as well as more
than half drunk. He staggered forward and fetched up against the fireplace.
I snarled and lashed my tail. It caught the
tiny flask and decanted it squarely on top of the Baron. The makeshift cork
dissolved at once, and the Alkahest streamed out onto his forehead. He
screamed, a thin, high, burbling shriek more befitting a dying vole. His head
simply vanished. It was the strangest sight. All that spectacular
wickedness—melted. Soon there was nothing left but an oily little puddle; then,
nothing but an oddly-shaped hole in the hearth.
Margaret was simply splendid. She pulled
herself together and restored her garments and person to their customary
neatness, washing off every trace of the Baron's touch. (I think she could have
done with more washing; but time was short, and she is only human.) She
straightened the room and fetched a rug from her father's bedchamber to cover
the hole in the floor. She scolded and bullied Master Ambrosius into packing
his personal possessions and alchemical impedimenta, ruthlessly discarding
anything that could be replaced later. We caught the stagecoach with minutes to
spare.
We are two days past the Almaine border, and
so far there has been no hue and cry after us. This is a pleasant inn in which
to recuperate and make plans. I am sprawled on a broad windowsill, enjoying the
spring sunshine and toying with a chicken wing, idly eavesdropping on my
people. Master Ambrosius wants to go to some place called Wittenberg which is famous for scholarship. He has
heard that there is a vacant professorship in alchemical studies there, and he
wants to apply for it. Margaret, who has developed a good deal of spirit
lately, thinks it would be rank folly to return to Almaine lands and is roundly
saying so. She wants to go somewhere warm and sunny, perhaps Languedoc , which she argues persuasively is a
treasury of Saracen lore. (The Saracens were great ones for alchemy.)
Warm and sunny Languedoc sounds just fine to me. It borders the Middle Sea ; surely there will be fish.
My people rise from the luncheon table. Master
Ambrosius announces his intention of exploring the town in search of bookshops.
Margaret, who has a more proper appreciation of leisure, comes to curl up on
the window-sill beside me and bask in the sun. She ruffles my ears with a
gentle hand.
"Good old Quincunx. Enjoy your comforts,
my lad; you've earned them. If you had not chanced to knock over that bottle on
top of the Baron, heaven knows what would have become of us!"
Dear Margaret! So wise, and yet so foolish in
some ways. Surely she should have realized by now that cats seldom do things by
chance—and we never, never, NEVER knock things over by accident.
CIRCUS
by Jayge
Carr
Jayge Carr has had
four novels published, and stopped counting short stories at fifty. On the
personal front, she is a native-born Texan with pioneer roots, married with two
grown children, has a degree in physics, and worked for NASA as a
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