Flower Rooted in the Bone

I rode into the town at mid­day, and soon found a boy near the gate who knew the way to Sir Nattam Street. Reach­ing it was a pleas­ure for me, and could only have been more of one for my horse; it was wider and less packed, the cobble­stones better‐kept, the hous­es nicer and the air more pleas­ant, just when our nos­es had sur­rend­er­ed to the urban stench. My cli­ent had told me of an­oth­er good friend of his, a gen­i­al and hos­pit­ab­le sch­ol­ar by the name of Doc­tor Aptormo, whom our mut­ual friend had ass­ur­ed me would glad­ly play host at his re­quest. This gentleman's home was mid­way down the street, two stor­ies high, wide, with a lime­stone faç­ade, a gar­den in front and an iron fence a­round it. So it was. To my vex­at­ion, I could only per­suade a ser­vant there to de­liv­er my let­ter of int­ro­duc­tion upon the doc­tor’s re­turn and tell him of my call. As I need­ed a roof at least until then, I asked my guide to lead me to the inn where at first I had planned to meet the sor­cer­er, Colmo, the next morn­ing.

He led me to a busi­er street, then to a more wel­com­ing buil­ding, made of stur­dy wood stained blond, greet­ing the world with broad win­dows, and hang­ing a pic­ture of a gray, light‐chested bird along with the ti­tle, “Sir G—’s Sire.” A mo­ment later, I real­ized the bird was a cu­ckoo. Clev­er name, I thought, al­ready won­der­ing which gen­tle­man the sign acc­used of ill­egit­ima­cy, how many here knew the rest of his name, what had driv­en the ow­ner to lay the charge this way—or if he had simp­ly pick­ed a let­ter to make a scan­dal. Had some knight, per­haps, pro­test­ed and thrown fuel on the bon­fire? I al­most reg­ret­ted that those quest­ions were be­neath me. I would have been amus­ed to know.

I sent away the boy, saw to my horse and walked in. The in­side smell­ed of the on­ions in the stew and the oak in the fire. A ro­tund, middle‐aged inn­keep­er with a bushy mous­tache tend­ed bar; I went to him first.

“Sir,” I said to him, “hello. I’m the fel­low Col­mo ex­pects, Detterin.”

He looked me up and down. “It's a pleas­ure. Mirma? Mir­ma?”

A full and rud­dy wo­man more than five years young­er than him, but less than ten, ans­wered his call. “Yes, dear?”

“What did the sor­cerer say that per­son looked like a­gain?” He had a twin­kle in his eye.

“Oh, ‘Not too tall, not too short, dirt‐brown hair, bird nose,’ I think.”

“You'd say this man here has a bird nose?”

“Not at all,” she huff­ed at her hus­band. “I'd call it—proud.” The pause was ad­mir­ably short.

I sug­gest­ed, “A­quil­ine, per­haps?”

“If you say so, sweet­ie,” she told me.

The inn­keeper had a smile on his face when I turn­ed back to him. I asked, “Is he here?”

“Not any­more, I'm a­fraid,” he ans­wer­ed, with a shake or two of his head.

I must have scowl­ed without mean­ing to; both of them got a lit­tle ner­vous. I said, “Our bus­iness is very im­port­ant. Did he say where he went?”

“Sorry, he didn’t.”

“That’s hard to be­lieve,” I told him as po­lite­ly as I could man­age, “and ve­ry in­con­ven­ient. Did he say why?”

“No,” said the inn­keeper, “But it was that wo­man in the vi­olet gown.” He held his neck ri­gid and did not look her way.

I asked, “With whom is she tra­vell­ing?” He hadn’t spoken as if she lived here.

“Herself.” He didn’t seem ea­ger to give de­tails.

Mir­ma had a lit­tle more to off­er. “She hasn’t told me much, but I know her name is Mafsina.”

I said through a clench­ed jaw, “If Col­mo re­turns, he may inq­uire af­ter me with Doc­tor Ap­tor­mo.” The wo­man had not been hard to spot. Well‐groomed, very well‐dressed, close to twen­ty years old, with a nar­row face, high cheeks and straight, dark hair to her shoul­ders, she was still eat­ing alone and look­ed hap­py that way. You would think she was queen of the inn from the way she sur­vey­ed it. I had to find Col­mo, and I would get my ans­wers from her.

I march­ed over to her and said, “Miss Maf­si­na?” I had no­tic­ed there was no ring on her left hand.

She had look­ed up the mo­ment I’d taken a step to­ward her. She still kept try­ing to stare me down.

“I don’t be­lieve we’ve met. Please call me Det­ter­in.” I wait­ed, but she wouldn’t take the gam­bit. “I’m look­ing for a man nam­ed Col­mo.”

She gave me a reaction at last: disdain. “What do you want with him?”

“We have important business to attend.”

This piqued her. “What ‘important business?’”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“But you need a sorcerer for it.”

“It’s con­fi­dent­ial, and I am not pre­par­ed to dis­cuss it. I must ask you to tell me where he is. I’m will­ing to show my grat­it­ude.”

“His head is up his ass.”

“I must ad­vise you not to play games, Miss. I am a sor­cer­er in a hur­ry.”

Her mock­ing laugh was far from what I had hop­ed, though al­so too mel­od­ic to tru­ly an­noy me. “Tell me: would you say that I’m won over by you al­rea­dy? In awe of you? Throw­ing my­self at your feet?”

I couldn’t make any sense of that, so I pre­tend­ed mis­hear­ing. “Par­don?”

“Am I at least strugg­ling to keep a nas­cent flame of love shutt­er­ed in the heav­ing lamp of my breast?”

Spout­ing non­sense at me be­cause I’d ask­ed her to get seri­ous was ob­nox­ious­ly pet­ul­ant, but at least now I knew the kind of wo­man with whom I dealt. I cross­ed my arms and said, in a stern and for­mal tone, “You must think me daft.”

“Well, in that case, am I a fil­thy cunt you'd ne­ver fuck any­way?”

I was too tak­en a­back to say any­th­ing for the mo­ment. So, she swung out of her chair, slid up to me, and ask­ed right in my face, “Am I for­get­ting my place? Do I de­serve the les­son you're a­bout to teach me?”

I stam­mer­ed, “It’s lost on me, your hu­mor.”

“You’re not a sor­cer­er,” she told me like a proud little know‐it‐all.

I re­cov­er­ed e­nough to say, “You must think us all in­sane.”

She ex­claim­ed, “Yes!” loud­ly e­nough that the oth­er heads in the bar all turn­ed the oth­er way, and a few brave souls beg­an to slink out of the inn. I won­der­ed for a mo­ment if the pro­pri­e­tor was keep­ing tab. “All sor­cer­ers are mad, to a man, and the strong­er the worse. Un­less you’re ut­ter­ly sure down to the roots that you will get what you want, al­ways, that you’re en­tit­led to it, all of it, that you’re the cho­sen one des­tin­ed for it, that you're the great­est he­ro the world will ever know, the Uni­verse won't give in. It won’t lis­ten. It won’t care about you.”

“But are you cer­tain?” I said. “Per­haps, if you thought a­bout it lon­ger, you’d cha­nge your mind.”

“I should know. I’m a sor­cer­ess,” she bo­ast­ed.

“Yes, I re­al­iz­ed that some time ago.”

“Of course you did.”

“And you're mis­tak­en; I am a sor­cer­er, quite pro­fic­ient, and not like that at all.”

“Of course you are. So, you’ll be im­mol­at­ing me short­ly?”

“I don’t do that sort of thing; no.”

“Of course you don’t. I must ad­vise you: I do.”

We both paus­ed to catch breath and glo­wer. I broke the tr­uce: “Do you even know where Col­mo is?”

“No.”

“Miss, it’s been a pleas­ure.” I strode out the door, proud and un­chall­eng­ed, then de­cid­ed to wait for Doc­tor Ap­tor­mo at his home af­ter all.

Just the next day, I saw Maf­si­na again. My host and I were en­joy­ing an ear­ly lunch in his din­ing room, pleas­ant­ly in­form­ing each oth­er of our ma­ny ach­ieve­ments and plans. (He much reg­rett­ed that I couldn’t dis­cuss my pur­pose in town in any de­tail, but of course he un­der­st­ood.) We had on­ly a mo­ment's warn­ing, in the form of an em­barr­ass­ed but­ler who rush­ed in and an­nounc­ed, “I’m sor­ry, sir, but a ve­ry in­sist­ent young la­dy—”

And she walk­ed in, mak­ing the rest of the sen­ten­ce re­dund­ant. The but­ler sens­ed this and re­treat­ed. She’d dress­ed more el­e­gant­ly than she had last night, prin­ci­pal­ly in that she had put on bet­ter jew­el­ry. There she stood, cold as she had been the first time we’d met.

Now, she spoke fir­st: “Are you Doc­tor Apt­or­mo? I’m en­chant­ed. Please for­give my in­tru­sion; Det­ter­in and I have im­port­ant busi­ness to att­end.”

I drew back in my seat, ref­us­ing to play a­long. The doc­tor spoke in­stead. This was the fir­st cri­sis I had seen him han­dle, and I ad­mir­ed the firm grip he kept on his tem­per, show­ing him­self agg­riev­ed but not per­turb­ed. “How did you get past the gua­rds?”

“You don’t pay them e­nough to take on a sor­cer­ess.”

He drew in a gasp and of course look­ed to me. I con­sid­er­ed re­mind­ing him that he paid me noth­ing but room and boa­rd, but we knew each oth­er so poor­ly that he might not take it as a joke. So in­stead, I de­clar­ed, “Don’t wor­ry; I’ll han­dle it,” and rose from the ta­ble. “Miss, shall we dis­cuss this out­side?”

She held her ton­gue un­til we reach­ed the gar­den, but not a mo­ment long­er. She rel­ax­ed vis­i­bly now that we were alone, and wore her lau­rels proud­ly on her face. Her voice even took on a more play­ful ten­or. “I see,” she said, “how you’ve kept your rep­u­tat­ion as a sor­cer­er.”

“That, and the mag­ic,” I told her.

“Please, dem­on­str­ate. When­ev­er you’d like.”

“I don’t do par­lor tricks gra­tis. Sor­ry.”

“And still, you need a sor­cer­er for your sec­ret miss­ion. E­ven one who picks fights with oth­er mag­ic­ians. What­ev­er for?”

“To car­ry my bags,” I said.

She chu­ckl­ed. “Well, I’m af­raid he isn’t like­ly to come back any time soon.”

I let out a sigh, but cut it sho­rt right a­way. “If you knew the con­seq­uen­ces of what you did, you’d be much less smug.”

She seem­ed wound­ed. “Oh, I’d much rath­er he’d not made me deal with him that way. Of cour­se I hadn't heard a word about your arr­ange­ment un­til you walk­ed in. But I’d still like to make am­ends. It’s why I’m here.”

I bit back my first, sar­don­ic re­act­ion. A sor­cer­ess could al­ways do so­me­th­ing help­ful if she wanted, and Maf­si­na had shown en­ough of her mer­cur­i­al na­ture to make me both hope­ful and al­ert. “How so?” I ask­ed her.

“By tak­ing his pla­ce. I’m clear­ly the bet­ter mag­ic­ian, so what­ev­er he cou­ld have done, I’ll do just as well. If I want to, once you tell me what that is.” She was hav­ing too much fun with the i­dea to be jok­ing.

“I don’t think that would work.”

That brou­ght a sud­den chill in her demeanor. “Why not?”

“Be­cause all I know a­bout you is that you made Col­mo va­nish. For un­known rea­sons,” I ans­wer­ed.

My re­ply didn’t plea­se her, but it wasn’t the wro­ng one she’d prim­ed her­self to jump on, ei­th­er. So, she stay­ed po­lite and ex­plain­ed. “Like a sor­cer­er—like a man—he felt that I should wel­come his ad­van­ces. He re­fus­ed to be­lieve that I was stron­ger un­til I pr­ov­ed it. Then he just re­fus­ed to face it.”

“You dro­ve him off for pay­ing you a comp­li­ment?”

“No. He chall­eng­ed me and lost; then he ran off.”

This I could believe. All too many sorcerers were boors, and most chose to focus their attention on women. “Did he know he was chall­eng­ing you?” I asked.

“Ab­sol­ute­ly. Or he should have. Men are so of­ten ob­liv­ious to what their words mean to oth­ers.”

I cau­ght my­self grind­ing my teeth and stopp­ed. “It looks like I might not be the part­ner for you. Best of luck, and I mean that in all sin­cer­ity.”

“No,” she as­sur­ed me, “It will be fine. I’m more than us­ed to male stu­pid­ity by now. I’m in­ur­ed to it. You aren’t near­ly as ann­oy­ing as a sor­cer­er. I cou­ld ea­si­ly put up with you.”

I need­ed sev­er­al deep brea­ths not to say some­th­ing I would re­gret. “Miss,” I fin­al­ly said, “You do un­der­st­and that I would be in charge of this miss­ion?”

She said, “Not a prob­lem,” and ev­en smil­ed the who­le time.

I had ex­pec­ted that to be a stick­ing poi­nt. Now what ex­cuse would I use? Or, I thou­ght, should I even make an ex­cuse? I came here pre­par­ed to work with yet an­oth­er nar­ciss­ist­ic mule of a sor­cer­er be­cause he was all there was; this woman at least seems to have her snar­es and trip­lin­es out in bro­ad day­light. Her need to prove her­self could even be use­ful. I de­cid­ed to prod her a bit: “It soun­ds as if he wasn’t the fir­st sor­cer­er you’ve had troub­le with.”

Maf­si­na gave me a wea­ry look. “Yes, my tal­ent came from my fath­er. Yes, I still resent him. I real­ize that. I ack­nowl­edge that. I’ve come to terms with it. It won’t be a prob­lem.”

It wasn’t an ans­wer I was pre­par­ed for, but it was good en­ough under the cir­cum­stan­ces. Main­ly be­cause she might al­rea­dy have el­im­in­at­ed my on­ly good al­tern­a­tive, I ruefully noted. I could on­ly guess how Col­mo would take a pub­lic hu­mil­iat­ion by a wo­man, but I’d known oth­er sor­cer­ers who’d pro­bab­ly cross the sea and nev­er come back. “All right,” I said. “Do you prom­ise that, wh­eth­er you ans­wer yes or no, you won’t re­peat what I’m about to tell you un­til it no long­er mat­ters?”

“Of course.”

“Not far from here is an est­ate. Less than a fort­night ago, a sor­cer­er went out­law and usurp­ed it. Each day, he does more harm to the lands and vass­als. The hand­ful who got away told of griev­ous trans­fig­ur­at­ions he per­form­ed to slake his wan­ton app­et­it­es. The right­ful liege has arr­ang­ed for me to re­store his prop­er­ty.”

“Ah. Where is this est­ate?”

“Not far from here. I know the way.” I didn’t acc­use her of plann­ing to head there on her own, and she didn’t act in­sult­ed.

“And what sort of pay­ment did you and this very weal­thy man arr­ange?”

“En­ough for both of us. I prom­ise you’ll get a fair share, of mon­ey and of fame.”

Her face made it clear that she would pry a set fig­ure out of me be­fore too long, but for the mo­ment, she had oth­er quest­ions. “That’s what he hir­ed you to do. What, ex­act­ly, are you hir­ing me to do?”

“De­feat the out­law, and help me re­store the prop­er­ty.”

“Not, ‘Help me de­feat the out­law?’ I supp­ose that’s for the best.”

“I’ll most ass­ur­ed­ly ass­ist with that. If the opp­or­tun­ity pre­sents it­self.”

“If, in­deed,” she re­mark­ed.

“In­deed,” I said.

She and I decided that it would be best to ride out that evening. From what the townsmen had told me, that would let us camp on the way and enter battle fresh. Sadly, I had no idea when the rogue slept or when he woke. I had made few ties in my one day there that took any time to unwind. I saw no sign that my new companion had formed any.

I called once more on Dr. Aptormo to thank him and to give notice of the change in plans. I was disappointed to see that had not yet come to grips with the morning's intrusion, or especially its ease. My quick and amicable solution to the Mafsina affair had not quite made up, in his estimation, for my unwittingly provoking it. Still, he promised to deliver two letters, to my client and to my brother, in the event that I did not return intact. I kept both missives brief, saying little more than where I was headed, when and with whom, but I took the time to write handsomely and with care. A letter from the grave especially should leave the right impression.

The only clue I had as to whether Mafsina would make any arrangements of her own was her remark about her father. They seemed not to be close; nor did she have a fiancé, unless it were in secret. If she were in love with another man, she surely would not have asked to travel with me alone. I felt it indiscreet to ask. At least I had provided, should the worst come true, that someone in this world would learn why she had died or worse.

She, in marked contrast, showed no sign of worry or even anxiety when next we met. Had she been anyone but a magician, I’d have called off the trip then and there. Since she was one, I felt more comfort than dismay. Her speech back in the inn about magic and self‐delusion agreed with my own experience, in most respects. A sorceress who felt sure she couldn’t fail probably wouldn’t. One who knew her limitations certainly could.

Mafsina arrived on a small and friendly gelding. She had changed into a more practical set of clothes than I had seen her in that morning, and taken her earrings out. She wore riding boots, long culottes and a wide hat with a chin strap, but sat side‐saddle. I saw that she wore no jacket over her short‐sleeved, white blouse, so after quick pleasantries, I asked: “What will we do if it rains?”

“It won’t,” she promised me.

“Why so confident?”

She said, “That was one of the first powers I learned I had, when I was a little girl. I can make it rain, or I can stop the rain. I hardly ever do either now, but tonight I’ll sleep under the stars. And it’s very important I get my rest.”

“And you’re certain?”

“You’re welcome.”

I cautiously regrouped for a second charge. “Please don’t think me ungrateful. What I’m wondering is, does this spell always work?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“So, you can always control the clouds. Without fail. Yet you choose not to.”

“Yoking Mother Nature and driving her with a whip never works.”

“But you could,” I challenged, not adding: Or so you say. “And you’re pleased to for your convenience. I’d have expected farmers to line up begging you to accept their fealty.”

I was glad to see her blush; she was mildly ashamed so far, not irate. She clarified: “If I try to do it for long periods—a full growing season, let’s say—it becomes unreliable. That was a childish wish to begin with. Since I only made sure it doesn’t rain tonight, hypothetical flaws don't matter.”

So she did admit that there was something she couldn’t do. Interesting, and important: if I could feel out the extent of this vestigial self‐doubt, I’d know the limit of her magic. If both our lives were to depend on it, one of us should. “For the first month, though, it’s always worked? Or the first week? But certainly the first day?”

She squirmed in her saddle as she searched for a more comfortable position. “When I was younger, I didn’t always do it right. It was more a ritual at first, even, than a proper spell. It took me some time to refine the proper technique.”

“Which, you just told me, you rarely use these days. Meaning, if I understand you correctly, that you haven’t tried the proper technique all that often.”

“When I do, it works.”

I had my answer to that, then. What I really cared about was how her mind would accomodate someone else’s magic. I changed tack. “Even if the usurper decided it should rain around the manor, it would make no difference, then?”

She paused for an instant to consider that. “You’ve told me nothing about him.”

“Sadly, I’ve told you almost all I know. He’s claimed the title ‘Principe Parolis,’ to which he is in no way entitled. He changes men for annoyances and women for catching his eye. I've heard that the first guard who challenged him is now his sentry and his ‘warning,’ whatever that means.”

Mafsina's teeth glistened. “So, no one’s heard of this Parolis before now? He’s never done anything worth noting?”

“No, not unless he’s crossed the world, or changed his name.”

Mafsina scorned him with her laugh, and all his kind. “Sorcerers don’t do that. Men have an insatiable itch for respect.”

“I beg to differ; you hadn’t heard my name yesterday, and I daresay I’ve yet to put you through anything of the sort.”

She inspected the seat of my breeches, and then, out of the blue sky, asked me: “That's a fine sword you have. Do you know how to use it?”

I answered, mildly flustered, “Rather well, or so I’m told. Was that a double‐entendre?”

“No, you silly dolt. I just wanted to know if you had some useful skill.”

There is a limit. “If you were a man, I would challenge you to answer for that.”

She laughed and laughed. “Oh, that’s the only reason you let it pass. I’m so helpless to defend myself. You’d never be able to live with yourself for bullying a poor little lady like me? Is that right?”

I pulled back on my reins and stood on my dignity. “There are some things, Miss, that a gentleman just does not do.”

A flash and a clap startled my horse, and I found myself tumbling to the ground. Barely managing to land on my feet, I rolled away from its panicking hooves and counted my bones. I guessed that I’d escaped with nothing worse than shin splints.

Mafsina wheeled her horse around. She said, “If he is such a great sorcerer in disguise, why’s he hiding in a shithole so far out of the way, the next town over hasn't even heard of him yet?” I had no retort. She kept her eyes on me while I calmed my horse and remounted.

We rode in silence until dusk, then halted without a word. As soon as I got down, Mafsina followed suit. I had tied off my steed's bridle when it, and I, smelled some kind of delicious stew. I turned and prepared to berate the woman, now that I finally had an excuse, for making a fire that our self‐proclaimed Principe could see, but then I saw that she hadn’t. She'd placed the skillet on some magically‐heated rocks.

“Dinner’s ready, if you want some.”

I was less angry than hungry by this point. I still kept up the silent treatment for half a minute or so, in protest. I then said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever tasted this before. It’s wonderful.”

“I must be getting homesick,” she mused. “I don’t know if they even make this here, this far south, but if they do, it’s probably as different as everything else.”

“Where are you from?” I wondered.

“North of here.” That must have been too much for her, too soon. She didn’t ask me in return, so I didn't volunteer. We finished our plates without saying more than that.

She was also the one who tried to restart the conversation the second time “I’m sorry,” she opened.

“Pardon; I didn't quite catch that.”

“I’m sorry I insulted you.”

“I almost heard; could you say that again?”

She caught on and pouted at me. “It wasn’t you I was angry at, but you were there. A man’s pride is broad as a hall, Detterin, and I should know better than to aim for it when I don’t want to hit.”

I had to stop and wonder whether she could possibly be sincere. I decided that she was; she’d told me, in her way, that she’d forgiven me for acting like a man. Which was—I had to be honest—a lot to forgive. “Apology accepted,” I said.

“Could I have a moment’s privacy?” she requested.

“Of course you may,” I told her. “I’ll be off this way.” She went the other.

I had just removed my codpiece when the bush I was facing decided to come to life and laugh at me. By the time I’d regained my wits, I was standing several steps back with my sword drawn. “Mafsina, This is not funny,” I announced.

“This is not”—the shrub responded in a juvenile voice, which just as suddenly came from my right instead—“Mafsina.”

I saw what had to have been a man, since his delicate face sported a sparse beard. Tight bindings around a pair of apple-sized breasts did little to conceal them, and his breeches, rather than being tight, were several finger breadths loose, which could only have obscured some other anomaly which I preferred not to contemplate. “Who, then?” I inquired in an even enough tone.

“Someone with a reason to hate the bitch as much as you,” he answered. “I saw her try to kill you.”

His presumption was so far off the mark that I had to assert my self‐control not to break down in amusement. There was only one person this could be: “Colmo, I presume? I’m glad to finally have the pleasure to meet you. I go by the name Detterin.”

“Yes, and I was ready to join you until that woman waylaid me. And you, I see. Is she an agent of the self-styled Principe?”

“I doubt that very much.”

He grinned malevolently. “Then there’s no one to stop us from taking our revenge. So, would you rather kill her, or fuck her?”

No, but I had to step carefully around this lunatic. “If there’s to be a fight between you, I’d be pleased to stay out of it.”

“Coward!” he shot at me.

Inconveniently, I couldn’t just let the two of them fight and side with the winner. There was a very good chance that they’d both alert my quarry and leave each other in no shape to take him on. Yet that was going to be exceedingly hard to prevent. I tried something new: “Wouldn’t you much prefer a cure for that curse, sir?”

“No! I came here to see the cunt humiliated and degraded and fucked. Why are you defending her?”

“I beg pardon, sir. If you’ve simply been waiting for the right moment to undo her work, then I can think of no reason to change your plans.” Except for all the sane ones.

I hoped for his sake that he didn’t play cards. His face battled with himself, until he finally complained, “But she has to pay!”

I pressed him further: “So you can go back and tell everyone, what? Boast that you took on a woman and won the rematch? You’re a gentleman; wouldn’t an apology give you as much satisfaction?”

He was plotting something, and incompetent to hide it. Letting on that I knew would probably enrage him. “An apology. Yes, from her. In person.” I would have to keep an eye on him from then on. That, and convincing Mafsina to give him an apology he’d accept when she didn’t feel sorry in the least, were the only obstacles that remained.

Before anything else, I replaced my codpiece. I then led Colmo in the direction Mafsina had taken. I called her name several times before getting an answer.

She had actually changed into a white nightgown, to my surprise. “Yes, Detterin? What is it? Colmo.” She reverted immediately to the cold and haughty stance she bore in the inn, only now she crossed her arms over her chest.

I had rehearsed this far. “Colmo says he comes in peace. He’s willing to drop the matter and leave in return for an apology and your lifting your spell.”

“He wants an apology. Do you know what he did?” At least her voice was low and level. Overt sarcasm might have lit his fuse.

I spoke quickly, before he could. “No; I wasn’t there; neither of you have told me. I see no need to hear the story. I think it would be gracious of you, Mafsina, to put it behind us.”

Perhaps Colmo had spun out a more self‐indulgent version of this conversation in his own fancy, one where he declaimed her crimes until she wept for his forgiveness. Perhaps he even then denied her it. Whatever the case, his disappointed, almost dumbfounded look brought a smile to Mafsina's lips. “Very well,” she said. “I apologize.”

He needed more than that. “For?”

Mafsina glanced up for a moment to consider. “If I offended against you.”

“That isn’t an apology!” shrieked Colmo. “She didn’t even admit doing anything!”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “you could rephrase?”

Mafsina cheerfully offered, “For offending you?”

Colmo would have none of this. “No, offending against me. That’s what you said before. You didn’t just wound my delicate sensibilities.”

She was enjoying this game too much. “Then I apologize for any injury I may have caused.”

I was surprised when he accepted. “Good. Now remove your spell.” That must have been the major part of his reason, and he would probably remember her as saying what he’d wanted anyhow.

She reached out her hand toward his shoulder, and he grabbed it. That shocked her with a visible tremor, and then she winced from the force of his grip. I saw Colmo's figure grow taller and sterner, but not more muscular. Mafsina pulled her hand back several times before he released it.

Colmo said, “Good. Now, Detterin and I can go about our business.”

Mafsina turned towards me, smoldering in fury. “You’re abandoning me? For him?”

I made a hasty decision. Colmo had most of what he wanted already, but nothing I could immediately think of would buy off Mafsina. “There must have been some misunderstanding. Colmo, I’ve already given the lady my word. I would still happily travel with you on any future journey. I regret not having been more clear.” I hadn't actually said anything of the sort until then, but he seemed convinced that I had, and maybe that explanation would mollify him.

He bellowed a loud and contemptuous huff, which either meant that he was the sort of man who could not understand that another’s word might mean something, or that he knew my record. He then spun and stomped away with no further discussion.

Mafsina and I walked back to camp, she chuckling at some private joke, me brooding. The trip had not gone so well as I had hoped, but I told myself that it was still going as well as could be expected.

I awoke to find Mafsina up and dressed already, her hair tousled and her eyes red. She hadn’t struck me as preoccupied when she went to sleep, but then, I hadn’t yet spent a night in her proximity. While I was used to sleeping out of doors, she seemed not to be, which might have kept her up. It was the best explanation I had.

I decided to risk asking her directly; I needed her at her full ability. “Did you not sleep well, Miss?”

She developed a scowl. “Detterin, what’s different about me today?”

If I’d enjoyed that game, I’d have taken a wife. “Sorry, I’ve had other things on my mind.” The real distraction, which I was too polite to mention, was that she’d left the top buttons of her blouse unhooked (and given me an even more gorgeous spectacle than I had imagined). If she didn’t realize that fact, I would spare her the embarrassment of telling her.

“My bosom, Detterin! If you’re all going to stare, could you at least pay attention?”

I began to reconsider my choice of her over Colmo. If this was the lead‐in to some new and ribald insult, best simply not to take the bait. “Beg pardon?”

“Look at my bosom!”

I could hardly refuse a request like that. “As fine a testament to Nature's artistry as are the verdant hills of—”

Somehow, she crossed the distance between us in one stride to slap me across the face. “Dare I even hope this time,” I pointedly wondered, “for an explanation?”

“They grew.” This close, I saw that her eyes weren’t red from sleeplessness, but from holding back tears. “I’m a grown woman, and still they grew.”

“Colmo.”

“It had to be.” She also noticed the short distance between us, stepped back, and began tying back her hair. “You owe your life to the fact you’re not a sorcerer. And stop looking.”

I’d disputed her claim often enough; this hardly seemed the time. I left for my own morning toiletries.

I gave her plenty of time to compose herself before I returned. She had saddled her own horse and was holding it by the bridle. She was, to look at her, serene and in command of herself, but one who knew her would not have failed to notice the difference. Her breasts had swelled from a size only she could tell was greater and now seemed a pair of plump grapefruits. I asked, “Are you ready?”

She nodded and mounted; I followed soon after. I was glad she hadn’t proposed to search for Colmo then and there, as I wasn’t sure I could have dissuaded her. The more I considered it, though, the more likely it seemed that he had simply rushed over to the manor himself, to claim an undiluted share of my pay. I hoped that wouldn’t be the case, as the one thing I needed least was a battle against two sorcerers.

The outermost sign of habitation was a marble statue along the manorial road, which, as we approached, turned out to be of a curvacious girl reclining. Just beyond it, the barley fields began. No one worked them today. We had barely ridden past when a man’s voice boomed, “You enter the Principality of Parolis. Seek his blessing or leave.”

Our mounts were quickly soothed. “His sentry and warning,” Mafsina recalled. “Then he knows we’re here.”

“A good assumption.” But something else was worrying me. Her bustline had only continued to burgeon, and now compared favorably to ripe melons, as well as her head. “Have you felt any other differences?” I had to know now, while there was still a chance to turn back.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head and causing her other proturbances to tremble. “If he tried to alter my mind, he failed. I know exactly who I am.”

“Yet the other changes took effect.”

She confessed with some small reluctance, “I do use certain magics to maintain my youth and vigor.”

“Along with your, shall we say, appearance?”

“As an ancillary result.”

We rode on. By the time the path branched, we could see the manor house, and that was where we proceeded. None of the serfs came up to greet us. Most even ran away in fear, either of us or of what their new lord would do if they gave aid. I caught only a glimpse here and there, of different ears than a person should have, or a tone of skin other than those Nature permits.

Mafsina drew back on her reins as we came to the courtyard. There, sprawled above the quartz stones, were the charred and crushed remains of a man with donkey ears, still too recent to make an odor. The face was Colmo’s.

“Giving him the ears, I can understand,” I said. Indeed, there was hardly a sorcerer I’d known who definitely could not have used the lesson. “Or putting him to death. But both? It seems so superfluous.”

Mafsina said in a quiet voice, “This will make it hard for him to break his spell.”

At a loss for words, I merely dismounted. She followed suit, not outwardly shaken. She had wisely omitted a corset from today’s dress, and her growth had pulled upward the hem of her blouse to reveal her navel and the light band of flesh around it. It no longer sufficed to conceal even what it covered, as I could clearly see her mountains’ peaks through the fabric and their vale through the gaps between buttons. Although they now approached the size of savory pumpkins, she showed no sign that they appreciably hampered her. We marched in tandem to the main doors, both of them thick, dark wood taller and broader than a man. We found them to be unbarred and stepped through.

The antechamber must have been cleaned very thoroughly in the past few hours, if a magical skirmish had taken place here. There were staircases to the left and right, and two doors in front, to choose from, and I had been ready to pick an exit arbitrarily when one of the doors swung open on its own. Arguing with a door seemed pointless. I looked to Mafsina; she shrugged. I entered first at a brisk pace, with my hand on the pommel of my sword.

The lamps in the room had all been damped, which forced our eyes to readjust, but already had granted those in the room ample time. The vague outline of a seated figure, regally draped, had just begun to resolve itself as I heard it speak: “You are the former Count’s agents. Kill them.” Colmo, doomed to fall short, had found one last way to spite us.

I could not yet see who rushed in, but I could, for an instant, hear their myriad feet. Then a burst of wind, so fierce as to be almost a wall, rushed behind me and out in every direction, throwing everything in the room into tumult. I found my sword drawn for me, and Mafsina shouted, “Detterin, do something useful!”

Even though I had her clear acknowledgement that I was the man in charge here, this was not the time to argue advice which was basically sound. I saw now that the room was some kind of banquet hall whose tables and furnishings Mafsina had toppled and scattered. I could still make out the soi‐disant principe by his diadem. Sword at the ready, I charged at him, hoping that there was nothing obscure in my path.

He had seen me as well, and raised his hand at me. A spray of something caustic and acrid engulfed me, burning away my shirt and cap. The amulet which had saved me illuminated for a moment the bare skin of my chest, then faded. I flung away the useless pommel of my ruined sword, and ran up empty‐handed to my foe. My elation when I felt his jaw against my fist did much to make up for that frustration.

He fell hollering onto his back, but then drew his legs up and thrust them out at me, hitting my ribs and throwing me back a few paces into the wall. Neither of us stayed on the ground for long, but I spotted my advantage: one of the tables had been thrown here, too, with all its settings. The first plate I grasped felt light and well‐balanced. I gave silent thanks to the potter as I flung it his way.

He tried to ensorcel me some other way, but failed as the next plate hit its mark. Only then did he seem to realize that he had no cover. He rushed in the other direction, toward the nearest gaggle of his troops. I was tempted to throw something else, but instead I took a moment to claim the carving knife. I gave him chase, much faster, I prided myself, than he could flee.

He ordered his guards to “Stop him!” before running out of the hall; all of them were armed with something more threatening than a steak knife. I really should have thought of this, I chided my derelict senses. But, the moment he was gone, not one lifted a finger to slow me. I ran right past them without breaking stride. Parolis had turned a corner and left my sight, but I could hear him shout back, “Fuck you! Fuck you all!”

I in turn was no sooner out of the room than a brilliant flare burst behind me. If I had been facing it, it might have been blinding. I could hear Mafsina giving some kind of speech, but not make out the words; after that, there was no sound of fighting. My own target had fallen back into my sight as he bolted up a set of stairs. I was not far behind him now.

He tried to make me stumble by greasing the stairs, but I lept over the last few steps. I caught up to him in the narrow corridor above, and he collapsed under my tackle. With my knife at his throat, he merely went limp. He was out of tricks.

“Please, don’t kill me,” he pleaded.

I covered him and thought of what he’d done with his undeserved magic. He’d shown nothing but arrogance and selfishness so far, with no hint of any redeeming virtue. I thought of how much misery and trouble could have been averted if the tendrils of his magic had never touched this place. I thought especially long and hard of many other sorcerers and how their reigns should have been cut short much, much sooner.

“Please. I was too weak. The temptation, it was just too much. If you could have all your wishes, what would you have done?”

I told him, “I would set things right. You never should have been able to scribble your daydreams all over the world. We never were meant to. Our fates were sealed long before you or I were born, and no amount of denial can change that truth. It’s lunacy to think we can wish our fantasies to life. It’s pure hubris to think we can do it responsibly. We’d have to be insane to try. I would set you free, Mister ‘Parolus.’ I would tell you to go and make an honest living.”

I stood up and stepped back to him. Mafsina had made it up the stairs as well; she floated now rather than trying to walk. Her blouse had burst along the way, but she had retied it with a knot between two spheres that hid most of her body from view.

The pretender didn’t realize what I had done at first. He desperately wanted not to believe the truth, and took a long time to acknowledge that it no longer mattered whether he did or not. He howled at me in misery and impotent anger.

“You’re not really saving his life,” Mafsina said to me. “The folk he tormented are calling for his head already.”

That was hardly my concern. “The only reason I didn’t kill him myself is that I don’t know the full story. They do. The mob can have him.”

We walked back down the stairs. A crowd had filed back into the hall, some of them milling about and some sitting on chairs they’d gathered. I held off on telling them that their last ruler was at their mercy until I was in the middle of the room; I preferred not to be overrun by the rush to judgment.

“Does this mean you’re the new lord and lady?” asked one pragmatic woman in a court dress, who had probably been the first to ask Parolis the same question. “Anything I can get you?”

“No,” I explained, “I've come to restore these lands to their rightful liege. I could, however, use a new shirt. One of his should fit.” She didn’t need to ask whose I meant.

“So,” Mafsina began, but it turned into a statement of its own.

“Yes, I’ll restore you.”

She whispered into my ear, “Do you think you could leave me wrong for one more evening?”

We relaxed on the bed together afterwards. Mafsina’s bosom might have been a bed in itself. “I feel like a babe in arms,” I told her.

She said, “I suppose I’m living proof there’s no such thing as maternal instinct.” Oddly, she smiled.

“Are you ready to go back?” I asked her.

“Yes. I suppose.”

Her curves dwindled down to what I had first seen. “Still lovely,” I rushed to assure her.

“Thank you,” she said, and slid out of my grasp.

We both dressed. “Don’t worry;” she said, “this doesn’t mean anything.”

I almost asked her if she was sure, but didn’t. I did know that I wasn’t. “What will you do?”

“Somewhere, there’s a man who’ll love me as an equal, who’ll share with me the respect we deserve.”

I sighed. “I suppose we are completely wrong for each other. You despise sorcerers like me; I despise magicians like us.”

“And both of us batshit insane. By our own account. I suppose we are.”

“What about the short term? That’s more along the lines of what I meant.”

“I don’t know. I might go east, on my own. I might go west, on my own.”

“Wouldn’t you like to be paid?”

“Oh, I’ve picked up a few knick‐knacks that should cover the fee you promised. You’ll explain it to the Count. You’re very good at that.”

I shook my head. “Is it that frightening? The thought of a normal life?”

She thought on it a short while. “Yes. That’s not it, but that’s part of it. I’m not what I can do. But it’s part of who I am. It brings me respect, Detterin. Could you live without respect?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what you mean. I could live without the kind of respect you demand. I do live without it. But I have choices you don’t. That’s not fair, and I realize it, but I can’t change it. And I can’t judge you for trying.”

She was fully‐dressed now, and waiting only for the end of our conversation to leave. “You’re the most decent man I’ve known, Detterin.”

“That frightens me more than anything else you’ve said.”

“Good luck.”

“Good luck, Mafsina.”

The End