A Calculated Magic

14

Stretched out on several wide cushions strewn across the floor, Roger reflected on how much he disliked sitting on cushions on the floor. However, he wisely refrained from expressing his opinions. The two entities present with him in the chamber were not in any mood to discuss his discomforts. In life, there was a time to speak and a time to remain silent. This was definitely one of the silent periods.

They were in a huge throne room, fifty feet square, forty feet high, decorated lavishly in ivory and gold, on the top of the Seven Wonders of the World Resort. The ceiling consisted of a gigantic mosaic of colored glass, effectively filtering the sunlight into a rainbow that ended on the only chair in the chamber—a massive obsidian throne, decorated with leering white skulls. Seated on the chair was the master of the complex, the Old Man of the Mountain. Pacing back and forth in front of him was Roger’s boss, the Lord of the Lions. The two were in the middle of a particularly heated disagreement.

Neither figure’s voice was raised in anger. Instead, they spoke softly, almost in whispers. It was all a matter of style, Roger concluded. The Old Man of the Mountain and the Lion Lord were very similar in nature. When their tempers rose, their voices dropped. Only the icy coldness of their tones indicated their true feelings. And the flurry of blue sparks that cascaded off the Crouching One’s forehead as he walked.

“Explain to me again,” said the Lord of the Lions, his catlike features twisted with rage, “the purpose of this… auction.”

“I’ve delineated the reasons behind my decision several times already,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, he wore a simple white robe belted by a black drawstring at the waist. His face resembled that of a skeleton, with dark, brooding eyes sunk so deep into his skull that they were barely visible. His thin, bloodless lips barely moved as he spoke. The menace in his voice was unmistakable. “Business is business. We had no contract.”

“Contract?” said the Crouching One. “Gods do not enter into covenants with murderers and assassins. We select our servants with great care and much deliberation.”

The Old Man of the Mountain laughed and glanced at Roger. “An impressive choice,” he declared sarcastically. “Obviously, this specimen possesses numerous talents not readily apparent to my humble, untrained eyes.”

“Mock me at your peril,” said the Lord of the Lions. “My wrath makes nations tremble.”

“Made nations tremble,” corrected the Old Man of the Mountain. “You controlled great powers forty centuries ago. Death and destruction bowed to you then, not now.”

“They will kneel at my feet again,” said the Crouching One. “As will the entire world. Others, in the past, have underestimated me. Do you dare risk my displeasure?”

A flicker of indecision crossed the Old Man’s features. Rising from his throne, he walked silently across the room to a solitary wood table holding the only modern convenience in the entire chamber—a telephone. Lifting the receiver, he asked a single question.

“Any word from the fat one?”

The Old Man of the Mountain paused, intent on the reply. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Call me if there is any message,” he commanded, “no matter when.”

Replacing the receiver, he turned to the Crouching One. “As I explained earlier, this resort cost several billion dollars to build. When the Chinese forced me to flee Tibet, I had to leave most of my riches behind. Unable to finance the necessary special features of this new mountain hideaway through normal channels, I then had to deal with the American supernatural underworld. Most of the money I borrowed came from a source that made even me shudder. This loan shark was a monster created by today’s fears and frustrations and was ruthless beyond measure. I hated dealing with him, but I had to have a new base of operations to survive.

“Normally, my assassination ring generates enough income to pay off any debt without much trouble. However, over the past few years, terrorist organizations have glutted the marketplace with cheap killers. Quality work no longer matters. Dictators and despots instead prefer bargain rates over craftsmanship. Thus, I find myself in financial difficulties.”

Roger groaned. He had heard this story three times in the past hour. While he sympathized with the Old Man of the Mountain, the Lord of the Lions was right. A deal was a deal.

He shifted his shoulders as if trying to dislodge an imaginary weight. It felt as if some sort of bird stood close to his neck, its talons digging into the muscles of his chest. But nothing was there. Roger attributed the discomfort to muscle cramps brought on by lying on the cushions.

“The notes come due next week. I need a great amount of cash in a very short time. My underworld contact is not very patient. Holding this auction is the answer. With the number of parties interested in obtaining the Russian’s services, I should easily raise enough money to satisfy my creditor.”

“You kidnapped Karsnov at my command,” said the Crouching One. His narrow fingers curled into fists. Blue sparks circled his forehead. Roger steeled himself for a new outburst. “I was the one who informed you of his plague virus.”

“Agreed,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “However, the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction provided the necessary manpower to effect the rescue. My Afreet and my magic carpet transported him out of Russia. And Loki’s network spirited him from Europe to America.”

The Old Man of the Mountain smiled. To Roger, the Assassin lord looked like a snake about to swallow a rabbit. “Each of you has a legitimate claim to the Russian. Whoever is willing to pay the highest price will have him.”

“Have you no respect for the ancient God of your people?” said the Crouching One, a note of desperation in its voice. “I reigned in Babylon for a millennium. Surely that must mean something to you?”

“Not a thing,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “As a true member of the faith, I have no God hut Allah. I owe no loyalty, none whatsoever, to the Ancient Ones.”

Regaining his throne, the Old Man of the Mountain spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “Please do not misunderstand me. I am only trying to be fair to all the parties concerned.”

“And make yourself a tidy sum in the meantime,” retorted the Lord of the Lions.

The Old Man of the Mountain shrugged. “I am an honorable man,” he declared, “but I am in business to make a profit. The auction stands as stated. If you want the Russian, you must bid for his services.”

The Crouching One sputtered in impotent rage. Roger could sense the demigod’s frustration. Four thousand years ago it would have blasted the Old Man of the Mountain to dust for his impudence. But it was nearly powerless in the modern world. There was nothing it could do but complain.

It might be a good time to change the topic, Roger decided. When frustrated, the demigod spent hours bitterly whining about the lack of respect it commanded. After suffering on the cushions, Roger was in no mood to endure the ranting and ravings of his tedious master.

“You have Karsnov well guarded?” he asked. “And what about Jack Collins? Don’t underestimate him just because he’s a human being.”

“The Russian is safe in a private gambling room above the casino,” answered the Old Man of the Mountain. “He loves to play cards. I have kept him entertained with blackjack and poker since his arrival. Nearly two dozen of my best men stand guard, inside and outside the chamber. No one, mortal or otherwise, can reach him. He is absolutely secure.”

The Old Man of the Mountain sneered. “As to Mr. Collins, I have effectively neutralized him. My Afreet has stolen his lady love and she is our prisoner in Paradise. There she stays until after the auction. He dares not interfere or she will suffer the consequences. My agents in Chicago report on his every movement. And even if he wanted to strike against me, he has no idea where to begin searching.”

Leaning back on the throne, the Old Man of the Mountain folded his hands across his stomach. “Collins thinks that events come to a climax at week’s end. He has no idea that the auction takes place tomorrow evening. By the time the fool learns otherwise, it will be too late.”

The Old Man of the Mountain yelped in sudden pain and swatted the air in front of his face with his hands. “By the Prophet’s beard,” he swore. “It felt as if something pecked me on the nose.”

Muttering to himself, the Old Man of the Mountain gently rubbed the tip of his proboscis. The skin beneath his fingers was bright red.

“Probably a bug,” said Roger, stifling a laugh. Neither the Old Man of the Mountain nor the Crouching One knew of his postcard to the Logical Magician. Nor of his own scheme. Learning the correct pronunciation of al-Sabbah’s name provided the last bit of information to complete his formula. The two overconfident entities were destined for several rude shocks very shortly. Roger felt brazen enough to register one more warning, positive it would be ignored. “Von Bern constantly misjudged Collins. He was a dangerous opponent. With a number of powerful allies.”

“Von Bern was a fool,” said the Old Man of the Mountain. “He deserved his fate.”

The Old Man of the Mountain clapped his hands three times. As if by magic, a dozen scantily clad women appeared from unseen doors, each carrying a tray full of food. Soft music, from an unseen band, filtered through the throne room. Roger groaned. It was the start of another one of the Old Man’s interminable banquets. More cushion time. His sore muscles shrieked in protest.

“Hasan al-Sabbah is the master of cunning and deceit,” the Old Man of the Mountain declared, reaching for a piece of fruit. “No one thwarts my wishes. No one. Not even a Logical Magician.”