Realms of Magic - Brian Thomsen King [79]
Before he could say more, the temperature in the room abruptly rose to a sweltering degree. The air was filled with the prickly scent of something magical. There was a loud pop, and with it Maeve stumbled back in slack-jawed surprise while Shank fumbled the wineglass from his grip, spilling Ankhapur's finest red all over the floor.
In the center of the room, looking almost as surprised and certainly as unhappy, was another brownie, dressed in a little jerkin of leaves and grass. Sticks and fern fronds jutted from the wild mass of his hair. Clutched in his hands was a green, floppy pod that he fumbled and almost dropped. Recovering it, he tucked it under his arm and, with an irritated grimace, turned to Maeve and made an awkward, forced bow. "I am Fiddlenose and am-at your service, mighty mage." The last was said through firmly clenched teeth, as though the words were wrenched from the very core of his being.
Maeve goggled. Two brownies! By the gods. She'd summoned two brownies!
Shank suddenly eyed the door and the window, trying to decide which he could get out first. It was time for young Shank to get scarce.
Fiddlenose found himself compelled to serve, his mind suddenly filled with strange thoughts that went against his very nature. What was he doing here, and why did he say that?
As she looked from Shank to Fiddlenose and Fiddlenose to Shank, it slowly dawned on Maeve through the drink and the length of the day. She hadn't summoned two familiars, two brownies to serve her. One was a fake, and one was real.
She pointed at the newcomer. "You, Fiddlenose. You say you're here to serve me?"
"Yes, mistress," the brownie grunted.
Shank eased out of his chair.
"No cheese, no wine, no fine clothes?"
Shank tiptoed across the uncarpeted floor, hoping to reach the open window.
"Only if it pleases you," was the dutifully miserable reply.
"And you-" Maeve turned to Shank's now empty chair.
That was the imposter's cue. He broke into a run, hoping to scramble over the towering sill before she could catch him. It had been fun, but now it was time to go.
The words were uttered, and the ray crackled from Maeve's fingertips before Shank had loped two paces.
The magical beam struck him full in the back and spread like ticklish fire down every nerve of his limbs. For a moment, he plunged forward, his body flailing like that of a decapitated hen, and then he fell to the floor in a loose puddle-the impossible way a dead man falls when all his muscles surrender life and control.
He hadn't, at least, surrendered life, but control…? Paralyzed. Through a sideways-canted view, he saw Maeve smiling with hard satisfaction. Perhaps still having life was not a good thing after all. If he could've closed his eyes, he'd have closed them and prayed to every god and goddess he knew for mercy.
Sure that Shank wasn't faking, Maeve turned back to her true familiar. She did feel keener and sharper, there was no doubt. A little of the wooziness was gone from her mind. She liked it; it was good. What other mage in Ankhapur could boast a brownie as her familiar?
A sniffled, "Mistress?" brought her attention back to the woodland sprite in front of her. She looked at Fid-dlenose-her brownie-and saw how sad and angry he was. "Mistress, what do you want of me?"
"You're my familiar?"
"Yes… mistress." Again the words were forced.
"Where do you come from?"
"Goodman Uesto's farm, near Woodrock." The question brightened the little face, but the joy quickly passed as the brownie thought of the sights he would never see again. "Will you let me go now?"
Maeve wasn't sure what to say. "Did you… want to be a familiar. I mean, how did I get you?"
Fiddlenose looked uncomfortably at the strange surroundings. He had never been in a human place like this before. Old Uesto's farm was just a cabin on the edge of the woods, nothing like this. "I wasn't asked. There was just a big buzz and-pop!-I was here."
The implication of it made Maeve weak, so unsettled