A Calculated Magic

35

Jack stared at the demigod talking to the Old Man of the Mountain. Nergal, Lord of the Lions, Master of Death and Destruction, resembled a short, elderly man, crippled by age. Barely five feet tall, die Lord of the Lions had a back arched so badly that its hands nearly touched the floor. Looking like a vulture hovering over its prey, the ancient entity truly was the Crouching One.

Completely hairless, lacking even eyebrows, the demigod had skin the color and texture of aged parchment. In deference to its surroundings, Nergal wore a dark blue pinstripe suit. The Lord of the Lions seemed nothing more than a wizened old business executive—except for its eyes. They glowed with an inner yellow fire, harsh and unblinking, cruel and utterly inhuman. Glimpsing those orbs, Jack knew for sure he finally faced his ultimate foe.

Behind the demigod, shifting about impatiently, was a tall, slender man with thinning hair and a scraggly beard. He was dressed in a pair of old jeans and a faded black sweatshirt. The stranger seemed unperturbed by the company he kept, leading Jack to suspect that here was the person responsible for Nergal’s reappearance in the modern world.

The man’s gaze methodically circled the room and came to rest on Jack. A brief smile lighted up the newcomer’s face and he nodded imperceptibly to Jack. The man laughed, drawing a comment from the Lord of the Lions.

“Our mysterious postcard person?” asked Cassandra quietly.

“Probably,” said Jack. “Who is he, Hugo?”

“Hasan al-Sabbah called him Roger Quinn,” the bird whispered in Jack’s ear. “Earlier this afternoon, while you and Cassandra were out buying pet supplies, Mongo and I visited a few old friends in the city. Returning, I stopped in the casino and eavesdropped on the Old Man of the Mountain as he escorted Smith and Wesson through the casino. It must have been shortly after your confrontation with the pair. The fanatics were still pretty steamed about Cassandra’s remarks. Hasan tried to distract them by introducing Quinn. According to the Old Man of the Mountain, Roger owns a major computer consulting firm in California. Smith and Wesson weren’t impressed. That pair learned diplomacy from Attila the Hun.”

“Dale Carnegie they’re not,” Jack murmured in agreement. “Anything more about Quinn?”

“Roger was the human present during the conversation between the Old Man of the Mountain and the Crouching One I told you about on your arrival in Las Vegas,” said Hugo. “He was the guy who said they shouldn’t underestimate you, and referred to Dietrich von Bern. I got the impression he worked for Nergal.”

“If that’s the case,” said Jack, “it plays havoc with my earlier theory that he sent the postcard as a warning. Unless Mr. Quinn is playing both ends against the middle. We better keep a close watch on him this evening.”

Jack shook his head in amazement. In most of the fantasy novels he had read in the past decade, the mortals involved with faeries and demons were always liberal arts majors. Numerous series’ books featured rock musicians, artists, and poets. Nobody wrote about scientists or engineers encountering the supernatural. Yet here in the real world, the two human agents working for the forces of light and darkness both specialized in mathematics.

In an odd fashion, it genuinely reflected an important truth. Just because artists and musicians dealt with emotions and feelings didn’t mean they would accept without question the existence of supernatural beings. In fact, most artistic people of Jack’s acquaintance, faced with the bitter realities of contemporary existence, were hard-headed cynics. Heartache and suffering had burned the dreams out of them. In their minds, they understood the world perfectly and refused to let themselves be contradicted by facts.

He doubted if any of them would adjust easily to the notion that magical entities shared man’s world.

Mathematicians, however, dealt with abstractions. Accepted beliefs meant nothing to them. Abstractions governed the universe. Prove a statement true and it was true. Thus, when Merlin originally demonstrated that magic worked, Jack accepted it as truth. He merely adjusted his frame of reference. As would any mathematician. It was all, he reflected, perfectly logical.

Hasan al-Sabbah interrupted Jack’s thoughts by clapping his hands together sharply three times. Immediately, all conversation in the room ceased. “My friends,” announced the Old Man of the Mountain, “we are ready to begin. Please be seated. The proceedings will commence in a few moments.”

“Wait,” said the Crouching One, raising one gnarled hand in protest. The demigod spoke with a surprisingly mild voice. “Before we start the bidding, I want to personally thank the representatives from the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction for rescuing Professor Karsnov from certain death in Russia. If it was not for their swift action, none of us would be here tonight They are true heroes.”

Smith and Wesson appeared astonished. Jack couldn’t blame them. According to Hugo, the demigod had been livid with rage over the fact that the terrorists double-crossed him and delivered the scientist to the Old Man of the Mountain. The Crouching One did not strike Jack as a God who forgave and forgot.

“A commendable attitude,” said Hasan al-Sabbah, his voice betraying his own bewilderment at the demigod’s unexpected shift in opinion.

“Come,” said the Lord of Lions, stepping over to the two fanatics, “let me congratulate you both,” The demigod thrust forward its hand. “Gentlemen, I salute your courage.”

Hesitantly, Smith reached out and grasped Nergal’s outstretched hand. When nothing unusual occurred, the tall man grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowing, broken teeth. Moments later, his companion also accepted the demigod’s commendatory handshake.

“Wonderful,” said Hasan al-Sabbah. “Let bygones be bygones. Now may we begin?”

Only Jack noted that Roger Quinn’s face had turned a sickly shade of green. He wondered what was behind Nergal’s actions. Somehow he suspected it wouldn’t be a lengthy wait before he found out.