The Wizardry Consulted

Seven: Settling In

News travels fast. The mayor and council hadn’t been at the Baggot Place, but they knew all about it by the time Wiz and Malkin made their way back to town. They were gathered inside the gate in a tight cluster when the pair strode back through.

While the town guard held back the common folk, the mayor and councilors pressed forward, eager to be associated with their new hero.

There seemed to be twice as many councilors as there had been in the jail. A couple seemed to be in open-mouthed awe of him. Most of the others looked gravely pleased. A minority eyed him speculatively, like a group of cats trying to decide what they could do with a new and rather strange baby bird which had just dropped into their midst. With a sinking feeling Wiz realized he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

"Well, Wizard, it seems we owe you a debt of gratitude," the mayor said, loudly enough to be sure the crowd heard him.

"All part of a consultant’s job," Wiz said airily and equally loudly. "We exist to solve our clients’ problems."

"Well, you’ve made a very good start," said one of the councilors, a handsome silver-haired man with an air of smooth sincerity.

"Almost too good," came a voice from the crowd. "Like it was planned."

"Of course it was planned," Wiz lied glibly. "You don’t think even a consultant would face a dragon without a plan, do you?"

"Some folks," Malkin put in, "don’t even plan where their next pot of ale is coming from." She turned to face the heckler. "Do they, Commer?"

The crowd laughed and that was the end of it.

"Now as I was saying," Mayor Hendrick went on, "let me be the first to welcome you to our city."

"On behalf of the council," a small, overdressed councilor with a fringe of dark curly hair added sharply.

The mayor looked annoyed. "On behalf of myself as mayor and the council," he amended.

"Thank you," Wiz said. "I’m sure this will be the beginning of a very productive relationship." Push it when you’re hot. "Oh, and I’ll need living quarters for my assistant and myself."

"We have just the place." Mayor Hendrick beamed. "A fine old house in the very center of town. In fact we will give it to you!" One or two of the councilors nodded enthusiastically and a couple of others looked smug.

"Very generous of you," Wiz said smoothly. Actually he was more puzzled than gratified. The mayor didn’t seem like the sort to be impressed by the morning’s activities, much less the kind who’d be moved to sudden acts of generosity. Still…

The mayor beckoned and a large, tough-looking man dressed mostly in black stepped forward.

"This is Sheriff Beorn Beornsdorf," Mayor Hendrick said. "He will show you to your new home."

Wiz smiled and acknowledged his recent captor with a nod. The sheriff’s neck bent a fraction of an inch in reply but he still looked like he was wishing Wiz and Malkin back into jail.

Wiz looked over at Malkin and jerked his head toward the mayor.

Malkin strolled over, still looking back at Wiz, and walked right into Mayor Hastlebone. She bounced off his ample stomach, apologized profusely, brushing off the front and shoulders of his tunic while she did so.

"Dust speck," Malkin said and stepped away to join Wiz. The mayor eyed her oddly then looked down and seemed to realize his chain of office was back around his neck. He frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it firmly.

The house turned out to be a substantial structure of the town’s usual stone-and-timber construction just off one of the town’s smaller squares. It was narrow but at least four stories high, with a front right on the street and a small, neglected garden in the back.

The garden wasn’t the only thing neglected. As they stood on the stoop Wiz could see that the windows were dirty and laced with cobwebs on the inside. There were streaks of rust running down from the door hinges and the brass lock plate was green with corrosion. Even with the door unlocked, Wiz had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. The unoiled hinges creaked and screamed like damned souls as the door swung to.

The hall inside was equally bad, musty smelling and deep in dust and cobwebs. There were doors opening off to either side and a large staircase leading up. Past the stairs was another door that probably led to the kitchen.

Wiz sniffed the stale air. It obviously hadn’t been opened in a while but he didn’t detect the odor of damp or rot. "This place doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years."

"Not in two years," Malkin told him. "Not since Widder Hackett died."

"Still," Wiz said as he looked around, "it seems like a nice place. I can’t imagine why anyone would leave a house like this empty. In the middle of town and all."

Malkin shrugged. "She didn’t leave any kin. Besides, it’s supposed to be haunted."

"Haunted," Wiz said faintly.

"Probably just rats running around the place."

"Rats," Wiz echoed more faintly.

Malkin considered. "But you never can tell. Old Lady Hackett was a sour sort and that’s a fact. If she could come back and haunt the place, like as not she would." She paused. "Maybe she could, too, seeing as how she was a witch and all."

"A witch," Wiz echoed more faintly yet.

"But don’t you worry," Malkin finished brightly, "it’s probably just rats."

Wiz decided rats were definitely his first choice. "Well anyway, it’s home for now so we’ll have to get this place cleaned up."

Malkin looked around. "Take a heap of cleaning."

"Oh, I don’t know. Sweep it out, scrub down the worst of it and it will be fine. Heck, it’ll be a hundred percent better if you just scrub the grime off the windows."

"I don’t do windows," Malkin said haughtily.

"I had a 386 system like that once."

She looked at him oddly.

"Okay, I’ll do the windows. But we’ll need a broom and some rags and stuff."

"I can get those at the market."

"Just be sure you pay for them."

Malkin’s face fell. "Where’s the fun in that?"

Before Wiz could answer there was a sharp knock at the door. Tugging it open, he found himself face-to-face with an overdressed, balding little man who looked vaguely familiar.

"I need to talk to you, Wizard," the man snapped. He glared at Malkin. "Alone."

Malkin, who apparently knew him, glared back. "I’ll get the stuff," she said to Wiz over the top of the visitor’s head. "You and Shorty here have a nice chat." With that she swept out the still-open door, leaving the little man purpling in her wake.

"Jailbird bitch should have gone to The Rock long ago," the man said as Wiz thrust the door closed on its still-protesting hinges. "But who you choose to associate with is your business. We’ve got other matters to discuss."

"What can I do for you Mr…?"

"Councilor," the man corrected. "I’m Councilor Dieter Hanwassel and I’m someone to be reckoned with around here."

Wiz looked more closely and saw the man was indeed wearing the heavy gold chain of a city councilman over his elaborately brocaded black-and-silver robe. Where he wasn’t going bald Dieter had dark curly hair that fluffed out from his head. Since he was bald from his forehead to the back of his cranium, he looked like he had just had a nasty accident with a lawn mower. The whole effect was comic-until you saw the jut of the jaw, the lips pressed into a tight line and the glitter in his dark eyes. He reminded Wiz of an excited terrier in a too-fancy collar. A terrier who was aching to take a bite out of someone.

"Ah yes, Councilor, I believe we met this morning."

Dieter jerked a nod. "We did. And now that the rest of those ninnies aren’t around we can talk seriously."

Wiz put on his blandest expression and nodded. One thing consultants never had to search for was the political factions in an organization. Sooner or later they came searching for you. Usually sooner.

"I’m sorry I can’t offer you a seat," Wiz said, "but you see-"

Dieter cut him off. "What you can offer me is your support, since just now you seem to have the council’s favor." He eyed Wiz. "I’m a plain man, Wizard, and plain-spoken. We can do a lot together, you and I. And I can do a lot for you."

"You mean you can help me with dragons?"

"Dragons," the councilor snorted. "What do I care about dragons? I’m a practical man and we both know there’s nothing you can do about them, eh? No, what I’m interested in is revenues. Do you realize this city hasn’t had a revenue increase in near a generation? There’s all sort of projects, wonderful projects, just stalled because there’s no revenue. Why, there’s streets, and fountains, and bridges. All just crying out to be built. And they’ve gone crying for years because of lack of revenues."

"What do you expect me to do about that? I’m an expert on dragons."

Dieter waved that away. "Tell them you need more money to fight the dragons, that’s what. They already agreed to pay you a tenth of the city’s revenues. Tell them you need more, and now."

"They’ll only pay me if-when-I succeed."

"And you know what they’ll do to you if you don’t succeed, eh?" The Councilman leaned close and glared up at Wiz. "Well, let me tell you, you won’t succeed without my help. I have weight on the council and me and my followers, we want those revenues increased."

Wiz wondered how much of those revenues would wind up in the pockets of the councilor and his cronies. Considering what the guy was like he decided a better question would be how much of the money would make it past those pockets.

"Now, I’m not a greedy man, Wizard," Dieter continued in what was obviously supposed to be a placating tone. "When the money flows there’ll be help for those as helped us. Sort of finder’s fees, you might say."

"It certainly sounds like a worthwhile program. What seems to be the obstacle?"

"The mayor’s the obstacle, him and that Rolf who’s behind him. All they ever do is cry about ’tax burdens’ and ’fiscal responsibility.’ " The little man snorted. " ’Fiscal responsibility.’ What about our responsibility to them as support us I’d like to know?"

Wiz nodded. "It sounds as if you have a very strong case. I can assure you I’ll give the matter serious consideration."

"You’ll give the matter more than that if you want to stay off The Rock," Dieter said. "I’ll be watching you, Wizard. And I’m a man who remembers his enemies as well as his friends."

After his visitor left Wiz spent the next several minutes working the front door back and forth to free up the rusted hinges. The hinges squeaked and groaned in protest and that suited his mood perfectly.

"The runt leave?" Malkin asked when she breezed back in a bit later, her arms loaded with cleaning supplies.

"He’s gone. Did you pay for all this stuff?"

"Charged it to the council," she said, dropping everything in the middle of the hall. "Someone will be around later with bedding and stuff. What did the little rat want anyway?"

"My help in raising taxes."

"Figures. Of the whole money-gouging lot Dieter’s about the worst." She paused and considered. "Well, anyways the most obnoxious."

"That’s a problem for another day," Wiz said as he stooped to pick up a broom. As he stood back up he saw the flash of gold in Malkin’s hand. "What’s that?"

"Oh, something I picked up in the market," she said breezily, holding up an ornate gold ring with a big green stone. "Do you like it?"

"I thought I told you not to steal anything."

"You told me to pay for the cleaning stuff. And I did-leastways I charged it all legal-like. But this," she said, popping the ring down her bodice, "isn’t cleaning stuff."

Tomorrow, Wiz told himself. I’ll worry about this tomorrow. "Come on, let’s try to make this place habitable."

Malkin turned out to be a surprisingly hard worker. She obviously didn’t know much more about house cleaning than Wiz did, but she went at it with a will and before long dust was flying in all directions. In a little less than two hours they had the front hall and two of the upstairs bedrooms more or less clean.

"Woof! You don’t have any spell to clean this place, do you?" Malkin said as she plopped down on the stair beside Wiz to take a break.

"Not really. Well, I do know one, but it takes everything out of the room." And sends it off in all directions with roughly the velocity of machine gun bullets. He remembered the time in the ruined City of Night when he and the others had hacked the spell together to move rubble and how they’d ended up cowering in the dirt from the resulting barrage of missiles. That reminded him of Jerry, Danny and most of all Moira, and sent a pang through him.

"You all right?" Malkin asked, catching his mood.

"Yeah, I’m fine." He focused his attention on her. "Tell me about this widow who used to live here."

"Widder Hackett?" Malkin chuckled. "She was a salty one, even for a witch. She had a tongue, that one. If you so much as sat down on her stoop she’d come flying out waving a broom and chase you off. Always complaining about dirt and such, she was." The girl looked around the house and shook her head. "What she’d think if she could see this place now! We could clean and polish until the end of time and we’d never get it back to what it was."

"I’ll settle for getting it to where it’s habitable," Wiz said. "Let’s do some more on the upstairs and then knock off for dinner."

"Let’s knock off for dinner and then do some more upstairs," Malkin countered. "It’s near evening and I haven’t eaten today."

"Now that you mention it…"

Malkin looked at him. "Well?" she said finally.

"Well what?"

"Well aren’t you going to magic us up food?"

"I’m not very good at that-unless the kitchen’s got a microwave?"

Malkin snorted. "Fine wizard you are. I don’t suppose you can cook either."

"I do all right," Wiz said defensively.

Malkin snorted again. "I know what that means, coming from a man. Look here then, I’ll go back to the market and get a few things-charge a few things," she amended hastily before Wiz could say anything, "and I’ll cook tonight. I don’t want food poisoning on top of everything else today. But tomorrow you do the cooking. Now help me get this miserable door open so I can get back to the miserable market before the last of the miserable stalls closes."

With Malkin’s help he tugged the door open again and he watched her as she disappeared down the street. Then he leaned against the door and pushed it to again as the hinges protested like souls in mortal agony.

The door, Wiz thought. I’ve got to do something about that damned door.

Wiz went down the worn stone steps into the kitchen. It had to be the kitchen, he decided, because private houses don’t usually come equipped with torture chambers.

It was a high, narrow room in what he would have thought of as the basement of the house. A couple of thin barred windows high up lit the place dimly. The walls and floors were dank stone and the ceiling was rough beams and planks. There was a huge fireplace with a wicked-looking collection of iron hooks and chains hanging under the mantel, plus a contraption of iron spikes and gears and yet more chains off to one side that he vaguely recognized as some kind of spit for roasting meat. There was a stone sink in the opposite wall and in the center of the room a heavy wooden table with a rack full of hooks above it.

Gee, he thought, clean this place up, light a fire in the fireplace, put some flowers here and there, I’ll bet you could brighten it up to, oh, say, dismal.

Among the pile of supplies Malkin had purchased was a small bottle of oil. Wiz took the oil back upstairs to the door and poured some on the hinges as best he could from the inside. Then he tugged the door open to get them from the outside.

He barely had the door open six inches when a furry gray streak shot through and dashed between his legs.

"Hey!" Wiz yelled, but the streak ignored him. It was halfway up the stairs before it stopped and resolved itself into a cat.

It was a rather bedraggled and quite large cat. A tiger-striped tabby cat, Wiz thought, dredging the terms out of his subconscious. A tiger-striped tabby tomcat, he amended as the cat turned its backside toward him.

The cat sat in the middle of the stairs and looked back over its right shoulder at Wiz.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Wiz demanded of the cat. The cat continued to study Wiz with its great yellow eyes as if to say, "I live here. What’s your excuse?"

Wiz opened his mouth to say more and then shut it again when he realized there wasn’t anything he could say. Not only is arguing with a cat a lost cause, this cat was halfway up the stairs and could easily outrun him if he tried to give chase. Wiz didn’t like looking foolish any more than the average cat does, so he decided to leave it for now.

Wiz didn’t dislike cats, but from observing his friends who had cats he had arrived at a couple of conclusions. The first was that cats, not being pack animals like dogs or people, do not have consciences. That meant that if you had a cat you were sharing your life with a furry little sociopath.

The second was that every animal had evolved to exploit an ecological niche and in the case of cats that niche was people.

"Well, all right," Wiz told the cat. "But don’t get the idea you’re staying."

"Who are you shouting at?" asked Malkin as she came in the door with a basket of food.

Wiz nodded toward the stairs. "That."

Malkin studied the cat and the cat studied Malkin. "I think that’s Widder Hackett’s cat," the tall girl said finally. "Handsome enough."

"So is a leopard, but that doesn’t mean I want to share quarters with one."

Malkin grinned at him. "Looks like he’s decided to share quarters with you. And if you’re planning on catching him to throw him out you can do it yourself. He’s a scrapper, that one, and I’ve no fancy to get myself clawed up to put out an animal that will come right back in every time you open the door."

"Hmmf," Wiz snorted, weighing his ambivalence toward cats against the obvious trouble it would take to get rid of this one. "Does he have a name?"

"Widder Hackett called him Precious, but I think his name is Bobo."

"Bobo, huh? Looks more like Bubba to me." The cat narrowed his yellow eyes and glared at him as if to say "Watch it, bud."

It turned out there was a stove in the kitchen. It was a ceramic tile box next to the fireplace that Wiz had dismissed as a waist-high work counter. There was also a wooden hand pump that drew water into the sink. Malkin got a fire going with the help of a fire-starting spell from Wiz and she quickly threw together a grain-and-vegetable porridge that turned out surprisingly well. They ate in the kitchen under the glow of a magic light globe Wiz conjured up.

The only excitement came when Bobo cornered and caught a rat in the upstairs hallway. He came trotting down the stairs, head high, with the limp furry corpse dangling from his mouth and settled himself under the sink to eat with the humans. Wiz turned his back to the sink and tried to ignore the occasional crunching noises from Bobo’s direction.

"Cat’s got his uses," Malkin observed.

"Unfortunately I don’t have a violin that needs stringing."

"I don’t suppose you’ve got a spell to clean dishes either," Malkin said as she scraped the last of the stew from her bowl.

"I can probably whip one up tomorrow."

"Let it be for tonight then. But one way or another, Wizard, you’ll clean those dishes tomorrow. And tomorrow it’s your turn to cook."

"Who’s the boss in this outfit anyway?"

"Depends," Malkin said lazily, "on who needs who the worst, don’t it?"

Tomorrow, Wiz thought. I’ll worry about this tomorrow.

Actually there was a lot to worry about tomorrow, Wiz admitted to himself as he crawled into bed later that evening. He had to get things set up here so he could work, and he had to figure out a way to keep Dieter pacified. And he still didn’t have the faintest idea how he was going to solve the village’s dragon problem. That last was really beginning to gnaw at him.

Well, Wiz thought as he drifted off to sleep, it could be worse I suppose.

"Look at this mess!"

Wiz jerked bolt upright in bed.

"Look at it, I tell you," the voice repeated.

Wiz looked around frantically, but the room was empty.

backslash light exe! he called out into the darkness. The room filled with the warm yellow glow of a magic globe, but there was still no sign of anyone else in the room.

"I don’t suppose you’re going to do anything about it, are you?" the voice rasped again. It was a particularly unpleasant voice. It reminded Wiz of a rusty door hinge or slowly pulling an old nail out of a piece of very hard wood.

"What are you carrying on about?" came another voice. Wiz whirled and saw Malkin in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"There’s someone in the room. I can hear her but I can’t see her."

There was a loud snort from the corner.

"There," Wiz said.

Malkin’s eyes narrowed. "I didn’t hear anything."

"It was a snort. A definite snort."

"Are you sure you’ve been getting enough rest?"

"I tell you there’s someone here. It sounds like an old woman and she’s complaining that the house is dirty."

"Well, look at this place!" the voice came again. "It’s a pigsty, an absolute pigsty! And what are you doing about it, I’d like to know? You’re sitting there in the dirt and not making a move to clean it up."

"Probably Widder Hackett," Malkin said judiciously. "I guess them as said the place was haunted was right."

"You’re taking this awfully calmly."

Malkin shrugged. "So far she’s not bothering me."

"Why is it I can hear her and you can’t?"

"Because you’re the owner, dummy," the old lady’s voice grated. "No one but the owner sees or hears the ghost. Them’s the rules."

Suddenly things clicked. "When you died without heirs," Wiz said into empty air, "who inherited this place?"

"Why, the council, of course," the voice said. "Not that any of that pack of layabouts lifted a finger to keep my house up. Crooked as a dog’s hind leg, every last one of them, and don’t think I didn’t tell them so!"

Malkin was obviously only hearing half the exchange, but she kept swiveling her head from Wiz to the corner he was looking at, like the spectator at a ping-pong match.

"Which explains why they gave the place to me."

"And what are you going to do about it?" the ghost demanded again.

"Well, this is all kind of new to me," Wiz temporized. "We don’t have ghosts where I come from. Except on TV-and you can usually fix those by getting cable."

The ghost of Widder Hackett ignored his sally. "A right uncivilized place, it sounds like. Well, we do things better here. And that means taking care of my house."

Wiz thought about pointing out that death usually severs right of ownership. Then he decided it probably didn’t apply here.

"Look, it’s the middle of the night. I can’t do anything about it right now, can I? I promise you I’ll get started on it first thing in the morning."

"I suppose that’s the best I can expect from someone like you. All right then, but first thing in the morning, mind."

I couldn’t get a ghost that rattles chains or moans, Wiz thought as he tried to get comfortable again in his haunted house. I’ve got to get one that nags at 80 dB. I don’t suppose there are OSHA noise regulations for ghosts either.

Wiz finally drifted off to sleep while musing on the most effective kind of hearing protectors to use against ghost noises.

Wiz was having a wonderful dream, about a place with Moira and no dragons, when a rocket went off beside his head. He was bolt upright with the covers off before he realized that what he had heard was a voice and not a particularly violent explosion.

"Well?" came the voice again.

"Well what?" Wiz was not at his best early in the morning and one glance at the rosy hue of sunlight painted on the wall told him it was very early morning.

"Well, it’s morning," said the voice in a particularly unpleasant tone. "What are you going to do about the house?"

"Ah, the house. Right." He realized he recognized the voice. He also realized he didn’t have any caffeine in the house. The third realization, less than thirty seconds later, was that this was not shaping up to be a good day.

True to his word of the night before he fixed breakfast for himself and Malkin. But Malkin apparently liked to sleep late as much as Wiz did and since she didn’t have a complaining ghost dogging her footsteps she could stay in bed. Wiz left a pot of oat porridge on the stove for her, put down a saucer of milk for Bobo after the cat jumped in his lap three times trying to get at his porridge and milk, left the dishes in the sink (over Widder Hackett’s strenuous objections) and dragged his way upstairs.

Since he still didn’t have a handle on the dragon problem, much less the more immediate stuff, he relied on routine. Maybe something would come to him while he worked.

The first order of business, Wiz decided, was to set up a workroom. In the back of his mind he knew that a programmer’s work space wasn’t really appropriate to someone who was supposed to be a consultant on dragons, but it didn’t really matter. It would make the place more homey and help him think about his real problem-once he figured out which of the mountains of problems he faced was the real one.

There were two parlors on the ground floor, one on each side of the entrance hall. Both of them were full of furniture swathed in dusty sheets and it looked like it would be a backbreaking job to move it out. Besides, the front windows were right on the street, which meant working there would be like working in a department store window, unless he kept the drapes drawn all the time, in which case he’d need artificial light. On top of all that he had a strong suspicion the ghost would have something to say if he starting moving the furniture around in the parlor-probably quite a lot to say, in fact.

The second floor, with his and Malkin’s bedrooms, had more possibilities. The upstairs front room had obviously been some sort of a sitting room rather than a bedroom. Now it was stark and bare with only a sturdy wooden chair sitting in one corner and a sturdier table against the opposite wall. But light flooded in when Wiz forced open the protesting shutters. It was clearly the best room in the house to serve as his workroom. Without another thought he grabbed one end of the heavy oak table and started to tug it over to the window.

"Don’t drag that!" Widder Hackett yelled. "You’ll gouge the floor."

The sudden noise made Wiz drop the table. One leg landed on his foot and the other hit the floor with a resounding thump. The scream of outrage in his ear almost made him forget the pain in his foot. "You ninny! Look what you’ve done. That mark will never come out! Oh, my beautiful floor."

It was amazing, Wiz thought, that even when he was hopping around holding one foot the ghost’s voice seemed to stay right in his ear.

Finally Widder Hackett ran down and the pain in Wiz’s foot subsided to a dull throb. Gingerly, favoring his injured foot, Wiz took the table in the middle and heaved it clear of the floor. He delicately staggered across the room and gently lowered it before the window, bending over in a position that put his lower back in dire peril. He straightened to ease the protesting back muscles and reached out to push the table up against the wall. A sharp sound from Widder Hackett stopped him and he ended up carefully lifting the end to slide it into position.

"And be sure you carry the chair too!" the old lady’s ghost added.

With the chair and table in place, Wiz sat down to rest his aching foot and to try to get some work done. Even though setting up his magical workstation went smoothly it still wasn’t easy. Every couple of minutes Widder Hackett would be back to complain about another outrage to her beloved house and Wiz’s lack of action, not to mention morals, character and general deportment. Since the ghost’s voice combined the worst features of a foghorn, a screech owl and a table saw ripping lumber full of nails, Wiz was quickly developing a semi-permanent twitch. He had always pictured ghosts as having high, reedy voices that were just on the edge of audibility. Apparently it took more than dying to modulate Widder Hackett’s tones.

"I’m surprised they didn’t let me out of jail just to give me the house," he muttered as he leaned back to examine the fruits of several hours of not-very-productive work.

"Don’t put your feet on the table!" Widder Hackett roared. Wiz jerked his feet back to the floor. "And sit up in that chair. You’re putting weight on it wrong and you’ll break it like as not."

Wiz had gone to public schools, but he had Catholic friends who had gone to parochial schools. From what they had told him Widder Hackett had a lot in common with the nuns.

Bobo sauntered through the door and jumped up on the table to sniff at Wiz’s magical spells. He decided that fiery letters probably weren’t good to eat. Then he decided he needed petting and Wiz’s hand was just lying on the table not doing anything so Bobo butted his head against it until he got a response.

Wiz sighed and scratched the cat under the chin. "I don’t know, Bubba. What do you think I ought to do?"

The cat gazed deep into Wiz’s eyes. "Feed me." The thought came crystal sharp into Wiz’s mind. Wiz sighed again.

"You know, it’s probably a good thing cat lovers don’t know what their cats are thinking."

"Feed me now," Bobo’s thought came clear again. There was no response except some distracted petting. The cat gave Wiz a look that clearly indicated he thought Wiz was mentally retarded for not getting the message. Then he jumped down from the table and stalked out the door, tail high.

"And just when are you going to do something about the disgraceful condition of the front parlor?" demanded a now-familiar voice beside his ear.

Wiz sighed again. He had a feeling it was going to be a long, long day.