Asprin, Robert - Myth 01 - Another Fine Myth

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Another Fine Myth

Asprin, Robert

Chapter One:

"There are things on heaven and earth,

Horatio, Man was not meant to know."

—HAMLET

ONE of the few redeeming facets of instructors, I

thought, is that occasionally they can be fooled. It was

true when my mother taught me to read, it was true

when my father tried to teach me to be a farmer, and it's

true now when I'm learning magik.

"You haven't been practicing!" Garkin's harsh ad-

monishment interrupted my musings.

"I have too!" I protested. "It's just a difficult exer-

cise."

As if in response, the feather I was levitating began to

tremble and wobble in midair.

"You aren't concentrating!" he accused.

"It's the wind," I argued. I wanted to add "from

your loud mouth," but didn't dare. Early in our lessons

Garkin had demonstrated his lack of appreciation for

cheeky apprentices.

"The wind," he sneered, mimicking my voice. "Like

this, dolt!"

My mental contact with the object of my concentra-

tion was interrupted as the feather darted suddenly

toward the ceiling. It jarred to a halt as if it had become

imbedded in something, though it was still a foot from

the wooden beams, then slowly rotated to a horizontal

plane. Just as slowly it rotated on its axis, then swapped

ends and began to glide around an invisible circle like a

leaf caught in an eddy.

I risked a glance at Garkin. He was draped over his

chair, feet dangling, his entire attention apparently de-

voted to devouring a leg of roast lizard-bird, a bird I

had snared I might add. Concentration indeed!

He looked up suddenly and our eyes met. It was too

late to look away so I simply looked back at him.

"Hungry?" His grease-flecked salt and pepper beard

was suddenly framing a wolfish grin. "Then show me

how much you've been practicing."

It took me a heartbeat to realize what he meant; then

I looked up desperately. The feather was tumbling floor-

ward, a bare shoulder-height from landing. Forcing the

sudden tension from my body, I reached out with my

mind . . . gently . . . form a pillow . . . don't knock it

away....

The feather halted a scant two hand-spans from the

floor.

I heard Garkin's low chuckle, but didn't allow it to

break my concentration. I hadn't let the feather touch

the floor for three years, and it wasn't going to touch

now.

Slowly I raised it until it floated at eye level. Wrap-

ping my mind around it, I rotated it on its axis, then en-

ticed it to swap ends. As I led it through the exercise, its

movement was not as smooth or sure as when Garkin set

his mind to the task, but it did move unerringly in its

assigned course.

Although I had not been practicing with the feather, I

had been practicing. When Garkin was not about or

preoccupied with his own studies, I devoted most of my

time to levitating pieces of metal—keys, to be specific.

Each type of levitation had its own inherent problems.

Metal was hard to work with because it was an inert

material. The feather, having once been part of a living

thing, was more responsive . . . too responsive. To lift

metal took effort, to maneuver a feather required

subtlety. Of the two, I preferred to work with metal. I

could see a more direct application of that skill in my

chosen profession.

"Good enough, lad. Now put it back in the book."

I smiled to myself. This part I had practiced, not

because of its potential applications, but because it was

fun.

The book was lying open on the end of the work-

bench. I brought the feather down in a long lazy spiral,

allowing it to pass lightly across the pages of the book

and up in a swooping arc, stopped it, and brought it

back. As it approached the book the second time, I dis-

engaged part of my mind to dart ahead to the book. As

the feather crossed the pages, the book snapped shut

like the jaws of a hungry predator, trapping the missile

within its grasp.

"Hmmmm ..." intoned Garkin, "a trifle showy, but

effective."

"Just a little something I worked up when I was prac-

ticing," I said casually, reaching out with my mind for

the other lizard-bird leg. Instead of floating gracefully

to my waiting hand, however, it remained on the

wooden platter as if it had taken root.

"Not so fast, my little sneak-thief. So you've been

practicing, eh?" He stroked his beard thoughtfully with

the half-gnawed bone in his hand.

"Certainly. Didn't it show?" It occurred to me that

Garkin is not as easy to fool as it sometimes seems.

"In that case, I'd like to see you light your candle. It

should be easy if you have been practicing as much as

you claim."

"I have no objections to trying, but as you have said

yourself so many times, some lessons come easier than

others."

Although I sounded confident, my spirits sank as the

large candle came floating to the work table in response

to Garkin's summons. In four years of trying I was yet

to be successful at this particular exercise. If Garkin was

going to keep me from food until I was successful, I

could go hungry for a long time.

"Say, uh, Garkin, it occurs to me I could probably

concentrate better on a full stomach."

"It occurs to me that you're stalling."

"Couldn't I...."

"Now, Skeeve."

There was no swaying him once he used my proper

name. That much I had learned over the years. Lad,

Thief, Idiot, Turnip-Head, though derogatory, as long

as he used one of these, his mind was still open. Once he

reverted to using my proper name, it was hopeless. It is

indeed a sorry state when the sound of your own name

becomes a knell of doom.

Well, if there was no way around it, I'd just have to

give it my best shot. For this there could be no half-

effort or feigned concentration. I would have to use

every ounce of my strength and skill to summon the

power.

I studied the candle with a detached mind, momen-

tarily blanking the effort ahead from my consciousness.

The room, the cluttered workbench, Garkin, even my

own hunger faded from view as I focused on the candle,

though I had long since memorized its every feature.

It was stout, nearly six inches across to stabilize its

ten-inch height. I had carved numerous mystic symbols

into its surface, copied painstakingly from Garkin's

books at his direction, though many of them were par-

tially obliterated by hardened rivulets of wax. The can-

dle had burned many long hours to light my studies, but

it had always been lit from a taper from the cooking fire

and not from my efforts.

Negative thought. Stop it.

I will light the candle this time. I will light it becaus,.

there is no reason I should not.

Consciously deepening my breathing, I began to

gather the power. My world narrowed further until all

I was aware of was the curled, blackened wick of the

candle.

I am Skeeve. My father has a farmer's bond with the

earth. My mother was an educated woman. My teacher

is a master magician. I am Skeeve. I will light this can-

dle.

I could feel myself beginning to grow warm as the

energies began to build within me. I focused the heat on

the wick.

Like my father, I tap the strength of the earth. The

knowledge my mother gave me is like a lens, enabling

me to focus what I have gained. The wisdom of my

teacher directs my efforts to those points of the universe

most likely to yield to my will. I am Skeeve.

The candle remained unlit. There was sweat on my

forehead now, and I was beginning to tremble with the

effort. No that was wrong, I should not tense. Relax.

Don't try to force it. Tenseness hinders the flow. Let

the energies pass freely, serve as a passive conductor. I

forced myself to relax, consciously letting the muscles

in my face and shoulders go slack as I redoubled my ef-

forts.

The flow was noticeably more intense now. I could

almost see the energy streaming from me to my target. I

stretched out a finger which focused the energies even

more. The candle remained unlit.

I couldn't do it. Negative thought. Stop it. I am

Skeeve. I will light the candle. My father. . . . No. Neg-

ative thought. Do not rely on others for your strength. I

will light the candle because I am Skeeve.

I was rewarded by a sudden surge of energy at the

thought. I pursued it, growing heady with power. I am

Skeeve. I am stronger than any of them. I escaped my

father's attempts to chain me to a plow as he had my

brother. My mother died from her idealism, but I used

her teachings to survive. My teacher is a gullible fool

who took a thief for an apprentice. I have beaten them

all. I am Skeeve. I will light the candle.

I was floating now. I realized how my abilities

dwarfed those around me. Whether the candle lit or not

was inconsequential. I am Skeeve. I am powerful.

Almost contemptuously I reached out with my mind

and touched the wick. A small bright ember appeared as

if in answer to my will.

Startled, I sat up and blinked at the candle. As I did.

the ember disappeared, leaving a small white plume of

smoke to mark its departure. I realized too late I had

broken concentration.

"Excellent, Lad!"

Garkin was suddenly beside me pounding my shoul-

der enthusiastically. How long he had been there I

neither knew nor cared.

"It went out," I said plaintively.

"Never you mind that. You lit it. You have the con-

fidence now. Next time it will be easy. By the stars, we'll

make a magician of you yet. Here, you must be hun-

gry."

I barely got my hand up in time to intercept the re-

maining lizard-bird leg before it smacked into my face.

It was cold.

"I don't mind admitting I was beginning to despair,

lad. What made that lesson so hard? Has it occurred to

you you could use that spell to give you extra light when

you're picking a lock or even to start a fire to serve as a

diversion?"

"I thought about it, but extra light could draw un-

wanted attention. As for starting a diversion, I'd be

afraid of hurting someone. I don't want to hurt anyone,

just...."

I stopped, realizing what I was saying, too late. A

heavy cuff from Garkin sent me sprawling off my stool.

"I thought so! You're still planning to be a thief. You

want to use my magiks to steal!"

He was towering in his rage, but for once I stood my

ground.

"What of it?" I snarled. "It beats starving. What's

so good about being'a magician, anyway? I mean, your

life-style here gives me so much to look forward to."

I gestured at the cluttered room that was the entirety

of the hut.

"Listen to the wolfling complain," Garkin sneered.

"It was good enough for you when the winter drove you

out of the woods to steal. 'It beats sleeping under a

bush,' you said."

"And it still does. That's why I'm still here. But I'm

not going to spend the rest of my life here. Hiding in a

little hut in the woods is not my idea of a future to look

forward to. You were living on roots and berries until I

came along and started trapping meat for the fire.

Maybe that's your idea of a wonderful life, Garkin, but

it's not mine!"

We glared at each other for several long moments.

Now that my anger was vented, I was more than a little

afraid. While I had not had extensive experience in the

field, I suspected that sneering at magicians was not the

best way to ensure a long and healthy future.

Surprisingly enough, it was Garkin who gave ground

first. He suddenly dropped his gaze and bowed his head,

giving me a rare view of the unkempt mass of hair atop

it.

"Perhaps you're right, Skeeve," his voice was

strangely soft. "Perhaps I have been showing you all the

work of magik, but not the rewards. I constantly forget

how suppressed magik is in these lands."

He raised his eyes to meet mine again, and I shivered

at the impact. They were not angry, but deep within

them burned a glow I had never seen before.

"Know you now, Skeeve, that all lands are not like

this one, nor was I always as you see me now. In lands

where magik is recognized instead of feared as it is here,

it is respected and commissioned by those in power.

There a skillful magician who keeps his wits about him

can reap a hundred times the wealth you aspire to as a

thief, and such power that...."

He broke off suddenly and shook his head as if to

clear it. When he opened his eyes again, the glow I had

seen burning earlier had died to an ember.

"But you aren't to be impressed by words, are you,

lad? Come, I'll show you a little demonstration of some

of the power you may one day wield—if you practice

your lessons, that is."

The joviality in his voice was forced. I nodded my

agreement in answer to that burning gaze. Truth to tell,

I needed no demonstration. His soft, brief oration had

awed me far more than any angry tirade or demonstra-

tion, but I did not wish to contradict him at this time.

I don't believe he actually noticed my response. He

was already striding into the large pentagram perma-

nently inscribed in the floor of the hut. As he walked, he

gestured absentmindedly and the charred copper brazier

scuttled forth from its place in the corner to meet him at

the center of the pentagram.

I had time to reflect that perhaps it was that brazier

that had first drawn me to Garkin. I remembered the

first time I peered through the window of his hut seek-

ing to identify and place objects of value for a later

theft. I had seen Garkin as I have seen him so often

since, pacing restlessly up and down the room, his nose

buried in a book. It was a surprising enough sight as it

was, for reading is not a common pastime in this area,

but what captured my attention was the brazier. It hob-

bled about the room, following Garkin like an impatient

puppy that was a little too polite to jump up on its

master to get his attention. Then Garkin had looked up

from his book, stared thoughtfully at his workbench;

then, with a nod of decision, gestured. A small pot of

unidentified content rose from the clutter and floated to

his waiting hand. He caught it, referred to his book

again, and poured out a dollop without looking up.

Quick as a cat, the brazier scrambled under his hand

and caught the dollop before it reached the floor. That

had been my introduction to magik.

Something wrenched my attention back to the pres-

ent. What was it? I checked Garkin's progress. No, he

was still at work, half hidden by a floating cloud of vials

and jars, mumbling as he occasionally plucked one from

the air and added a bit of its contents to the brazier.

Whatever he was working on, it promised to be spec-

tacular.

Then I heard it again, a muffled step outside the hut.

But that was impossible! Garkin always set the ... I

began to search my memory. I could not recall Garkin

setting the protective wards before he started to work.

Ridiculous. Caution was the first and most important

thing Garkin hammered into me, and part of caution

was always setting wards before you started working.

He couldn't have forgotten . . . but he had been rather

intense and distracted.

I was still trying to decide if I should attempt to inter-

rupt Garkin's work when he suddenly stepped back

from the brazier. He fixed me with his gaze, and my

warning died in my throat. This was not the time to im-

pose reality on the situation. The glow was back in his

eyes, stronger than before.

"Even demonstrations should give a lesson," he in-

toned. "Control, Skeeve. Control is the mainstay of

magik. Power without control is a disaster. That is why

you practice with a feather though you are able to move

much larger and heavier objects. Control. Even your

meager powers would be dangerous unless controlled,

and I will not teach you more until you have learned

that control."

He carefully stepped out of the pentagram.

"To demonstrate the value of control, I will now

summon forth a demon, a being from another world.

He is powerful, cruel, and vicious, and would kill us

both if given the chance. Yet despite this, we need not

fear him because he will be controlled. He will be unable

to harm us or anything else in this world as long as he is

contained within that pentagram. Now watch, Skeeve.

Watch and learn."

So saying, he turned once more to the brazier. He

spread his hands, and as he did, the five candles at the

points of the pentagram sprang to life and the lines of

the pentagram began to glow with an eerie blue light.

Silence reigned for several minutes, then he began to

chant in a low mumble. A thread of smoke appeared

from the brazier, but instead of rising to the ceiling, it

poured onto the floor and began to form a small cloud

that seethed and pulsed. Garkin's chanting was louder

now, and the cloud grew and darkened. The brazier was

almost obscured from view, but there ... in the depths

of the cloud ... something was taking shape....

"Isstvan sends his greetings, Garkin!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the words. They

came from inside the hut, but not inside the pentagram!

I whirled toward their source. A figure was standing just

inside the door, blinding in a glowing gold cloak. For a

mad moment I thought it was the demon answering

Garkin's summons. Then I saw the crossbow. It was a

man, alright, but the crossbow, cocked and loaded in

his hand, did little for my peace of mind.

Garkin did not even turn to look.

"Not now, you fool!" he snarled.

"It has been a long hunt, Garkin," the man contin-

ued as if he hadn't heard. "You've hidden yourself well,

but did you really hope to escape...."

"You dare!?!" Garkin spun from his work, towering

in his rage.

The man saw Garkin's face now, saw the eyes, and his

face contorted in a grotesque mask of fear. Reflexively,

he loosed the bolt from his crossbow, but too late. I did

not see what Garkin did, things were happening too

fast, but the man suddenly disappeared in a sheet of

flame. He shrieked in agony and fell to the floor. The

flame disappeared as suddenly as it had come, leaving

only the smoldering corpse as evidence it had existed at

all.

I remained rooted to the spot for several moments

before I could move or even speak.

"Garkin," I said at last, "I... Garkin!"

Garkin's form was a crumpled lump on the floor. I

was at his side in one bound, but I was far too late. The

crossbow bolt protruded with silent finality from his

chest. Garkin had given me my last lesson.

As I stooped to touch his body, I noticed something

that froze my blood in its veins. Half-hidden by his

form was the extinguished candle from the north point

of the pentagram. The lines were no longer glowing

blue. The protective spell was gone.

With agonizing effort, I raised my head and found

myself gazing into a pair of yellow eyes, flecked with

gold, that were not of this world.

Chapter Two:

Things are not always as they seem."

—MANDRAKE

ONCE, in the woods, I found myself face to face with a

snake-cat. On another occasion, I encountered a spider-

bear. Now, faced with a demon, I decided to pattern my

behavior after that which had saved me in the aforemen-

tioned situations. I froze. At least, in hindsight, I like to

think it was a deliberate, calculated act.

The demon curled its lips back, revealing a double

row of needle-sharp teeth.

I considered changing my chosen course of action; I

considered fainting.

The demon ran a purple tongue over his lips and

began to slowly extend a taloned hand toward me. That

did it! I went backward, not in a catlike graceful bound,

but scrabbling on all fours. It's surprising how fast you

can move that way when properly inspired. I managed

to build up a substantial head of steam before I crashed

head-first into the wall.

"Gaahh. ..." I said. It may not seem like much, but

at the time it was the calmest expression of pain and

terror I could think of.

At my outburst, the demon seemed to choke. Several

ragged shouts erupted, then he began to laugh. It wasn't

a low menacing laugh, but the wholehearted enthusias-

tic laughter of someone who has just seen something

hysterically funny.

I found it both disquieting and annoying. Annoying

because I had a growing suspicion I was the source of

his amusement; disquieting because . . . well... he was

a demon and demons are....

"Cold, vicious, and bloodthirsty," the demon gasped

as if he had read my thoughts. "You really bought the

whole line, didn't you, kid?"

"I beg your pardon?" I said because I couldn't think

of anything else to say.

"Something wrong with your ears? I said 'cold,

vicious....' "

"I heard you. I meant what did you mean."

"What I meant was that you were scared stiff, by a

few well chosen words from my esteemed colleague, I'll

wager." He jerked a thumb at Garkin's body. "Sorry

for the dramatics. I felt a touch of comic relief was

necessary to lighten an otherwise tragic moment."

"Comic relief?"

"Well, actually, I couldn't pass up the opportunity.

You should have seen your face."

He chuckled to himself as he strode out of the pen-

tagram and began leisurely inspecting the premises.

"So this is Garkin's new place, huh? What a dump.

Who would have thought he'd come to this?"

To say I was perplexed would be an understatement. I

wasn't sure how a demon should act, but it wasn't like

this.

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AnotherFineMythbyAsprin,RobertChapterOne:"Therearethingsonheavenandearth,Horatio,Manwasnotmeanttoknow."—HAMLETONEofthefewredeemingfacetsofinstructors,Ithought,isthatoccasionallytheycanbefooled.Itwastruewhenmymothertaughtmetoread,itwastruewhenmyfathertriedtoteachmetobeafarmer,andit'struenowwhenI'mlea...

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