Vengeance by Colin Harvey Page A

the town radiated goodwill. It was also very old.
    The first few people they asked for directions swiftly showed bucolic goodwill to be a myth. They pulled faces, shrugged, and all said, “No idea. Sorry,” but never sounded sorry. So much for community spirit , she thought. Jocasta and the spellhound wandered through the town, drifting toward its centre. The bright houses’ paint had blistered in the brilliant sunlight; up close what had seemed like bucolic charm turned out to be neglect.
    Eventually, someone pointed them the right way, and after a brief diversion down a dead end, they found the shop they were looking for. It was now late afternoon, and the sunlight was gentler, though not yet starting to fade.
    There were two doors, one on the corner of the building, which led into the shop, and a second beside it, which Jocasta suspected led through the house into the back of the premises.
    Jocasta pushed open the corner door and entered. It was clear that it had been abandoned in spirit for some time though physically vacated only very recently. There was a patina of dust, but the footprints on the floor showed people had still been here even while it was neglected. There was a lamp in the window, which Jocasta snapped on. Its gentle radiance made the shop both cosier and more run-down than ever. She pulled out a dried bird's foot from beneath the counter and cast it into a receptacle.
* * * *
    The spellhound waited outside and looked the shop over, whilst watching both exits from the corner. The lamps in the window caused beams of amber, gold, turquoise, and aquamarine to reflect off the jewelled surfaces. They were very effective for baubles, it thought. There were packets of herbs and patent medicines that promised cures for every sickness of mind and body.
    A booming voice issued from within the shop, so the spellhound joined Jocasta. She looked excited: “There's all kinds of nonsense for separating fools from their money, but also some good stuff amongst the dross. O'Malley's definitely gone, though only very recently, judging by the warmth of the equipment. Listen to this.” She hit the message wall.
    A voice, inhumanly loud, filled the room. “Assassins have been sent to kill you! Go now, while you still can!"
    "Interesting, huh?” Jocasta hopped from foot to foot. “I checked the time. The first message was an hour after we left Duff's last night. The second was less than an hour later. Duff may have a spy in his camp."
    —Perhaps not. O'Malley may have watched Duff's house as a precaution. If the house was watched, my role is obvious.—
    "Okay,” Jocasta agreed. “How long has he been gone?"
    —Less than twenty-four hours.—The spellhound sniffed around the shop, along every surface, in every gap, into every cranny, muscles straining as it fought to separate what was relevant from the irrelevant. The dust tickled its snout, and it sneezed.
    It reached behind the counter, working purely on instinct. There was an explosion within its brain—there! The same set of smells as Duff's study! Its body was as taut as a wire, and fur stood erect along its spine. It raised its head in a moment of triumph, and from deep within it, a whine bubbled, erupting as a howl. It scrabbled, scattering rubbish, and emerged with something. It waved the casing of a spell in triumph.
    "It could be the case for the copy we took from Kehmet, though I don't think so,” Jocasta mused. “O'Malley's probably created more than one new copy."
    Using the man's scent in the shop as a conductor uses a baton, the spellhound drew a pattern with its paws. A shape began to form. The more the spellhound motioned, the more detailed the picture grew. It drew a sketch, a life-sized three-dimensional portrait of O'Malley. Red-bearded, dome-headed, slightly below average height; green-eyed with wide thick lips and a bulbous nose. He would never have been called handsome, Jocasta thought, but there was something about him. Even the simulacra