TOM Page 6

  CHAPTER 6

  THE SUCKER

  “You promised you’d teach me some magic, Master,” said Tom, seizing what he hoped was an opportune moment, as they walked into the laboratory. It was not that such moments did not exist. It was just that they were rare, and mostly required that something particularly unpleasant had happened to someone or something else.

  It appeared that whatever had made Master Hargarthius chuckle evilly as he walked down the long passage earlier, had not been sufficiently nasty. “Hmph. Why on earth would I do such a ridiculous thing with a good-for-nothing boy? A boy who needs to get those filthy cobwebs out of my laboratory.”

  Master Hargarthius had taken against spiders, since the demon had used one of them in his escape bid. Of course he still wanted cobwebs when he wanted them, and quickly. But having the producers living in the laboratory was just not on. Unfortunately, this was not an opinion shared by the spiders, who seemed to think it was their ancestral home, to which they had the right of return. Tom would do his best, and yet, by next time old Grumptious walked in there, there’d be webs again. Now was not a good time, as the magician pointed to a web in the corner. But Tom, having got himself to this point, was determined. He pointed at the tray-topped chamber-pot, now on a far shelf, with chalked symbols around it, in seven colors. “You said it’d be useful for demons, Master.”

  Master Hargarthius said “Hmph,” again. He said it rather a lot, but Tom was fairly sure it wasn’t magical or worth learning to do. “Nearly as much use as you keeping this place clean, boy.” He sighed, irritably. “I suppose I can make sure it’s cleaning spells you learn. Where is your broom?”

  It wasn’t quite what Tom had had in mind, but, well, he had to start somewhere. He stopped. “I’ll go and fetch it, Master.”

  “Do. And stop walking in front of me and stopping where I’m about to step, for Zoranthyrus’s sake!”

  So Tom fetched his broom. He’d stashed it in a corner, not in the broom-cupboard. He was a bit wary about that cupboard. It seemed to be very, very much deeper than it looked from outside. And the door had a tendency to swing closed for no apparent reason. Tom didn’t feel comfortable even going into it, and, for some reason, the raven kept trying to chase him away from it.

  The magician looked at him and the broom disapprovingly, and then rubbed his long, bony, knobbly hands and wrinkled his nose, as if he’d smelled something bad. That was a relief, everything was normal, thought Tom. If Old Grumptious had smiled Tom would have dropped the broom and run. “Right. We’ll need the long water-bath, and the carboy of Dotfaw Hydro-voltaic-barythermic fluid from the store. And a jar of newt’s eyes. There are some up on the shelf there.”

  There were, of course. And many other things. Tom started with dragging the water-bath out, and fetching the Dotfaw Hydro-voltaic-barythermic fluid while Master Hargarthius indulged in the important magical ritual of standing around and then sticking his finger in his ear.

  Tom climbed up on the workbench to reach the jars on the high shelf, and was glad Master Hargarthius could not see the dustiness behind them. He was rather preoccupied in his cunning plan to dust the bottle on his robe, while he was between it and the Magician’s eyes, when Master proved he was attentive to more than just the amount of earwax on his index finger. “Not that one, you fool of a boy. That’s Neep’s eyes. You’d soup the entire thing up far too much. It’s three jars along.”

  Reading was still a slower chore for Tom than it should be, and the writing on some of the jars was old and faded anyway. But, yes, the difference was there, now that he looked carefully. He took down the jar of desperately winking newt eyes, and tried to hand them to the magician.

  “Put them on the bench. They’re an activator,” said Master Hargarthius. “At this stage, which is probably the only stage you’ll ever be fit for, you’re using magic, not making it.” And he carefully turned his back on Tom, and started muttering away. Tom, of course, tried to listen and peer at what the Master was doing… but cautiously. That limited his ability to work out quite what was written on his broom in ear-wax, or the spells enacted on it. It did help that he was quick on his feet to dodge the splash when the magician dropped the broom into the bath. The liquid spat fat angry sparks and hissed like a furious tom-cat, before squirming into the cracks between the paving stones.

  The master continued to mutter mysterious words and make mystic passes above the seething liquid. Well, it was that… or he was swearing and waving his arms around. It was sometimes hard to tell, Tom had to admit. He noticed the raven had flapped off to the far corner, before it all started. Tom had, by now, decided it wasn’t entirely a stupid bird, so he backed off a little himself. This time there was no explosion and shattered glass. No strong smell of roasted rat. No fragments best not thought about hanging from the ceiling.

  Just a high-pitched whine, like mosquitos in chorus.

  Then that too stopped.

  Tom edged forward.

  Master Hargarthius gave an irritable sigh. “Always underfoot, boy! Pick it up.”

  Tom looked for tongs. He wasn’t going near that Dotfaw Hydro-voltaic-barythermic fluid. It bit. But there was no need, the bath was dry, containing only his broom. Well, it looked like his broom, except perhaps for having a faint sheen to it. Nervously he touched it. It did not attack him, so he picked it up.

  “Right,” said Master Hargarthius. “We need to affix a newt’s eye to the handle.” He spat onto a couple of his fingers, and put a wet spit-spot on the end of the handle. He plucked out one of the newt’s eyes from the jar, and popped it into the spit. “Now where did I put the thumb-tacks?” he asked looking around. Tom had no idea, so gave him no answer.

  “Well, it’ll just have to stick there. Be careful with it. Now, hold the broom firmly, and repeat the following incantation after me. Concentrate, boy. I will only tell you once. And the pronunciation better be perfect. Repeat exactly what I say.”

  Tom took a firm grip on the broom. Nodded.

  “Roohvah a ekil skus gnithon!” said the magician. So Tom repeated it.

  Nothing happened.

  “Another twice, it takes three repetitions.”

  “Another twice…” Tom got a clout around his ear. “The spell, fool boy. Now you’ll have to start again. Say the incantation three times.”

  “Roohvah a ekil skus gnithon! Roohvah a ekil skus gnithon! Roohvah a ekil skus gnithon!” said Tom.

  Some more nothing happened.

  “Now you have to press the newt’s eye,” instructed Master Hargarthius.

  Warily Tom did. The eyelid blinked frantically as he poked a finger at it. That wasn’t all that happened though. There was an eerie booming ‘hoom’ sound. The broom’s straw bristles writhed and sucked onto Tom’s foot. He screamed and tried to throw the broom away, but it wasn’t letting go of his hands, although he did manage to pull it off his foot. Instead the broom, with a deep ‘hoom’, nuzzled under the bench and then began to drag Tom around the room slowly, with dust flying toward the writhing straws. It was better at cleaning than Tom was with the old broom. That was all that Tom could find to say that was good about it, right now. “How do I stop it!” he asked, as the Magician watched with some satisfaction, as Tom and the enchanted broom hoomed their way past him.

  “Hmm. I don’t recall right now. It’ll stop when it’s done. I’m going to do some reading. Call me when you’re done. You’ve given me an idea.”

  And with that he walked out and off to his study, leaving Tom to finish hooming the room.

  Tom had to admit that the enchanted broom did make his work easier — once he stopped trying to fight the broom and just let it do what it felt it must. It was undoubtedly magical. But he didn’t feel he’d actually learned any magic yet. He’d just learned to use some. He still had no idea what he was doing. Well, there were times he suspected that was true of Master Hargarthius too. Especially when he blew things up — once every few days, or had a temper tantrum because a spell either didn’t
work or worked wrong. At least Tom’s two spells… the one for opening things and the one for making his broom suck up the dirt, always worked.

  A few weeks later, Tom found himself cleaning up, again, after another failed experiment. The hoom-broom refused to deal with the bigger pieces of glass, and had stopped. Tom propped it against the wall and sighed, looking around for his dust-pan. He’d put it in the corner, which took him to the vicinity of a chamber-pot, with a silver tray on the top of it. Today it was a very pallid shade of blue, and the pansies a pink that bordered on white.

  “Hey cat,” said the demon, as he walked closer. “Er, cat, um, you wouldn’t like to help me out a little?” The tone was wheedling, with a hint of desperation, thought Tom, who was beginning to get a handle on human tone.

  “Not likely! You tried to kill me with spiders, remember,” said Tom.

  “Don’t be so discriminatory, cat! It was for your own good,” said the demon. There was a pause, and then with obvious effort, “Look, I’m not asking you to let me out, just, uh, fix me up with some of that good stuff again.”

  “What?” asked Tom.

  “Oh cat, I need it so bad. Just a little bit. I’ll do anything. Anything at all,” pleaded the demon.

  “You’re stuck in a chamber pot. You can’t do anything.”

  There was a moment’s silence, again. “Well, I could tell you things. Humans always want to know things. Cats probably do too. You’re curious. I know many secrets. I’ll tell you anything you want to know for some more. And a bit of that crack.”

  Crack? “You’d lie. And anyway, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I’m not letting you out.”

  “The stuff you gave me last time. Please. I’m begging you. I’m desperate. If you don’t do it, I’ll burst out of here.” And indeed the sides of chamber-pot bulged ominously.

  It became slightly clearer to Tom. And there was some broken glass to dispose of, and a long walk to take it away, otherwise. “Stay there. I’ll have to see if I can get something for you,” said Tom, who had nearly retreated onto the shards of broken glass. He picked one up and advanced on the chamber pot… it had worked last time.

  And it worked this time. The silver lid raised marginally and a smoky hand made a frantic grab… not for Tom — who let go, but for the sharp edged glass, which was ripped into the pot. A puff of lavender smoke emerged, but the tray settled down again. The pansies started to dance frenetically.

  If it hadn’t been for the pansies, Tom would have kept quiet about it. But Old Grumptious was bound to notice them, he knew. The magician had a bad habit of noticing exactly what you least wanted him to notice. So he went to Master Hargathius’s study and knocked. He’d learned the wisdom of that. The sound of snoring merely reflected one of the more pleasant possibilities.

  “What is it, boy?” said the magician. “Why are you disturbing me again?” He yawned, closing the book on the desk.

  “It’s the demon, Master. It took a piece of broken glass.”

  Master Hargarthius got to his feet, picked up the leaning staff. “It shouldn’t be able to do that. It’s constrained, and the bonds should stop something many times as strong. And touching silver hurts them,” he said, thoughtfully.

  They walked back down the long winding stair and the passage to the laboratory. “Did you pick up the lid, the tray, boy?” asked Master Hargarthius thoughtfully.

  “No. It reached out a smoky hand and took it. Really. But it was begging for broken glass. Crack, it called it.”

  “I’m going to have to give it a crack or two,” said the magician, grumpily.

  “It was offering to tell me secrets.”

  “Oh yes. They do. And they are secrets. Unfortunately usually made up on the spur of the moment. Demons lie. And they will tell you it’s for your own good. Great Zoryanthus’s pickled left testicle! It should not be able to do that! Avaunt, I tell you!”

  The demon was smokily dancing in the chamber-pot… at least, writhing slowly and rhythmically in smoky coils with the silver tray balanced on top of its head. “Pickle,” yelled the demon. “I need it. I want pickle, not a motasickle…” Then he whined. “Ah come on, man, fix me up, man.”

  Master Hargarthius’s eyes narrowed. “Boy. Fetch me a pickled onion. Just one. Run.”

  So Tom ran.

  Of course he ran straight into the skull of Mrs Drellson, which yelled at him. He was getting quite good at dodging her by now. There were important techniques he’d learned: One of them was “Master Hargarthius needs…”

  That usually saved him from the green darts of pain. “You need a good kicking, boy. You see that I can see my face in the big pot by this evening. You call that clean. Huh. I’d do a better job with both hands tied behind my back.”

  Human speech was still very confusing, thought Tom, even when it came out of a disembodied floating skull. She didn’t have a face. And if she did, did she want it boiled? And it wouldn’t make much difference to her cleaning skills if she tied both her hands behind her back. They were presumably buried somewhere… Tom unbolted the pantry, and rushed in. And backed away from the cheese, which had sneaked up on him. It made an odd sort of burring, humming noise. But although it had butted his hand it hadn’t actually bitten him. Tom got the message. The demon might want a pickle, but first the cheese was going to get some milk. He gave it a little from the ever-full jug. The cheese kept trying nudge his hand as he poured. And then it lapped at it… making the deep burring sound.

  It was… purring. Tom had to resist his sudden urge first to wash it with his tongue, and then, from the human side of him, to stroke it.

  Really, it wasn’t so much purring as humming. And cheese did that, when it was dangerous. It had little sharp teeth! Tom shook his head, and peered at the jars. No, those weren’t vole-skulls, but pickled onions. He took the jar out of the pantry, carefully closing it behind him. The door might keep mice out — but thinking as a cat, Tom was not sure of that. Perhaps it kept the cheese in, and that would probably deal with the mice.

  He took a pickle out of the jar with a fork that only bent slightly on contact with it, and put it into a small bowl — and endured a lecture from the skull of Mrs Drellson about cleaning them, and putting the pickles back, before running up to the laboratory.

  Master Hargarthius had chalked several more containment circles around the chamber-pot, and was standing with his staff extended towards the demon. “It appears broken glass gives it a certain hysterical strength, and the ability to ignore pain.”

  “Gimme the pickle, I want the pickle…” shrieked the demon, long vermillion claws reaching, scrabbling against the magical containment.

  Master Hargarthius picked the pickle up off the plate, and tossed it at the chamber-pot.

  It was snatched out of the air… and not by the raven, despite it trying. There was a mushroom cloud of rainbow-colored smoke… and all was still. The demon was back in its pot, and the pansies resumed a slower dance, their color fading to a soft lavender.

  “Hmph,” said Master Hargarthius. That could mean a lot of things, Tom had discovered. “I suppose it’ll be devouring all my pickles. Well. I’ll need to look this up in Groomes Encyclopaedia Demonologica. I won’t be needing you, boy. Back to your work.”

  So Tom went back to the kitchen, where breakfast plates still had to be cleaned. There were a large number of jobs Tom disliked and dishwashing was high on that list. He wished he had a spell for a wash-disher. Now that would be handy. Of course, the Skull of Mrs Drellson was waiting for him to tell her about it. “What took you so long, boy?” she demanded.

  Tom had worked out that the Skull was also curious, although less so than a cat. It liked to gossip. “The demon wanted a pickle. The Master is worried it will consume all his pickles.”

  The skull snorted. “He should be so lucky. You’d better put that jar back, boy.”

  So Tom took it to the pantry. He couldn’t find the spot he’d taken it from though. The gap seemed to have filled it
self in with another jar. The milk he’d poured out was gone, but the cheese was at least silent and undemanding. Tom stole some milk on principle. How come that jug was full again?

  “What are you doing in there,” demanded the Skull. “Not being disgusting and drinking milk straight out of the jug, are you?”

  Tom hastily wiped his lips and chin and came out. “Just struggling to find a place for that jar. There seem to be a lot of pickles on the shelf.”

  The skull of Mrs Drellson had sniffed disapprovingly. “They’re breeding in there. It’s bad domestic management. You put pickle-jars together on a dark shelf in a boring, lonely pantry and what do you expect?”

  Out of curiosity, Tom had tried to catch them at it after that, but so far the most evidence he’d seen was a fiery blush on a jar of pickled plums.

  The Wickedest Witch of the West (and she’d had to work hard in her youth for that title), was, frankly, worried. She’d hated doing that, but informing Duke Karst had seemed the lesser of two evils at the time. They’d been ready for her, waiting.

  It was a question of timing and choosing that timing.

  And Karst, goody-two-shoes, at least was better disposed to her as a result, instead of trying to keep her away from Borbungsburg Castle. Huh. Her reputation indeed. At least King Uther had understood her. The Tindrell blood ran strong in that girl, unlike this prosy boring Duke. And anyway she had found better places for entertainment. Borbungsburg was dull compared to Majorca.

  CHAPTER 7

  EYE OF NEWT

  Tom discovered the big problem with newt’s eyes was that they really were very badly attached… at least to the broom, if not to the newt. Perhaps having been detached once, they’d got used to it, and weren’t used to staying put. He’d been lucky the first time, seeing the eye fall onto the bench. The second time he’d been less lucky but he had found it by crawling around the laboratory floor, and catching the winking reflection of it from under a bench.