Masters of Fantasy Part 43

That evening, in the long soft twilight, Felis told of Dall's courage, of the magic in the knife he'd carved,

of his oaths and his need to return.

"Then-I suppose this is yours too," said the youngest girl, Julya. She fished out of her bodice a little flat circle of wood carved with rose petals and held it out to him. Dall could hear the tears in her voice.

Felis shook his head. "Nay, la.s.s. When I carved the flowers, I thought of my own sisters, far away. If it has magic, let it comfort you." He touched it with his finger. Then the air was filled with the perfume of roses, a scent that faded only slowly. The girl's face glowed with joy; she sniffed it again and tucked it back into her clothes.

"And he really saved you?" Dall's oldest brother asked.

"I slipped and fell," Dall said.

"At exactly the right moment," Felis said, a wave of his hand shutting off the gibes Dall's brothers had

ready. "I hope he'll come with me, help me find the rest of the carvings I must find before I go back to my order."

"But-" Gory the Tall peered through the gloom at his son and at Felis. "If he's not the boy he was . . ."

"Then it's time for him to leave," Felis said. He turned to Dall. "If you want to, that is."

He was home without blows and jeers; he had triumphed. If he stayed, he would have that to fall back on. Stories to tell, scars to show. If he left, this time it would be for such adventures as paladins find-he knew far more about real adventures now than he had . . . and he was no longer angry and hurt, with every reason to go and none to stay.

An evening breeze stirred the dust, waking all the familiar smells of home. At his back, Julya pressed close; he could just smell the rose-scent of the carving in her bodice. But beyond that, he could smell the creek, the trees, the indefinable scent of lands beyond that he had only begun to know.

"I will go with you," he said to Felis. And then, to his family, "And someday I will come home again, with gifts for you all."

The Amorous Broom

A John Justin Mallory story Mike Resnick John Justin Mallory, his feet up on his desk, his battered fedora worn at an angle, was studying the Racing Form.

"You know," he announced, "I think I just may take a run out to the track this afternoon."

"Oh my G.o.d!" breathed Winnifred Carruthers, his pudgy, pink-faced, gray-haired partner. "That poor creature is entered again, isn't he?"

"How did you guess?" asked Mallory.

"It's the only time you ever go to the track-when Flyaway's running."

" 'Running' is an overstatement," said the not-quite-human creature perched atop the refrigerator in the next room. "Flyaway plods."

"When I want advice from the office cat," said Mallory irritably, "rest a.s.sured I'll ask for it."

"That's what Flyaway does," continued Felina from atop the refrigerator. "He rests a.s.sured."

"If you ever leave here," said Mallory, "don't apply for a job as a comedian."

"Why should I leave here?" purred Felina. "It's warm and dry and you feed me."

"How many races has Flyaway lost in a row now, John Justin?" asked Winnifred.

"Fifty-three."

"Doesn't that suggest something to you?" she persisted.

"That it's past time for him to win."

"You are the finest detective in this Manhattan," continued Winnifred. "How can you be so stupid?"

"O ye of little faith," said Mallory.

"You've solved a lot of tricky cases, and put yourself in harm's way at least half a dozen times. Did you do it solely so you could keep losing your money on Flyaway?"

"When I go out on a case, my function is to detect," replied Mallory. "When I go to the track, my function is to bet. Why do you have such a problem with that? Mallory & Carruthers is paying its bills.

This is discretionary income."

"I don't have a problem with betting," shot back Winnifred. "But betting involves an element of chance.

Putting your money on Flyaway doesn't."

"You're going to look mighty silly when he finally wins one," said Mallory.

"Well said!" cried a voice. "You tell 'em, John Justin Mallory!"

Mallory was on his feet in an instant. "Who said that?" he demanded.

Felina leaped catlike to the floor and bounded into the office. She grinned, extended a s.h.i.+ning claw at the end of her forefinger, and pointed it toward a broom that was leaning against a wall in the far corner.

"Come on," said Mallory. "Brooms don't talk."

"I most certainly do," said the broom.

Mallory stared at the broom for a moment, then looked at Winnifred. "Yours?" he asked.

"I never saw it before," she said.

"Then what's it doing here?"

"Why not ask it?" suggested Winnifred.

"I've never spoken to a broom before. How does one address it?"

"You may call me Hecate," said the broom.

"Isn't that a witch's name?" asked Winnifred.

"She was my first owner."

"All right, Hecate," said Mallory. "Who and what are you, and more to the point, what are you doing in my office?"

"I want to be near you, John Justin Mallory," said Hecate.

"Why?"

"The Grundy hates you. Isn't that enough?"

"Okay, he's behind this, right?"

"No, he doesn't know I'm here," said the broom.

"It's pretty hard to keep a secret from the most powerful demon on the East Coast," said Mallory. He paused. "Where does the Grundy think you are?"

"Hanging on his wall with his other magical trophies."

"Why aren't you there?"

"He's mean and cruel and unfeeling," complained the broom. "He put me there a year ago and hasn't let me down since. I made up my mind to escape months ago, but I didn't know where to find sanctuary until he started complaining about you. Mallory did this, and Mallory did that, and Mallory thwarted him again-so I knew that you were the one person who could protect me from the Grundy." Hecate paused.

"He was wrong about you. You're beautiful, John Justin Mallory."

Mallory turned to Winnifred. "Call a cab."

"What are you going to do?" asked Hecate apprehensively.

"I'm going to return you to your owner before he rips my office apart looking for you."

"But you can't! He'll just hang me on that wall again!"

"We all have problems," said Mallory, walking across the room toward the broom. "Yours will have to be resolved without my help."

He picked up the broom and began carrying it to the front door.

It squealed.

"Oh, my! What strong, manly hands you have, John Justin Mallory!"

"Where the h.e.l.l's your voice coming from?" asked Mallory.

"Why?"

"I want to shut you up. I thought I'd put some tape over your mouth."

"I'll never tell!"

Mallory opened the door, then looked back over his shoulder. "Tell them I'll pay double if the cabbie doesn't ask any questions."

"Right," said Winnifred.

It took Mallory twenty minutes to drive to the Grundy's Gothic Baptist castle at the north end of Central

Park. He handed the broom to one of the Grundy's trolls, then walked back across the drawbridge, climbed into the cab, and had it drive him home.

When he entered the office the broom was propped against his desk, waiting for him.

"I forgive you, John Justin Mallory," it said.

"How the h.e.l.l did you get back ahead of me?"

"I'm a magic broom. I can fly. My original mistress and I used to fly everywhere. She loved the loop-the-

loop, before my arthritis made it too difficult."

"Forget all that," said Mallory. "You don't seem to understand the situation here. You belong to my

mortal enemy, a being who can bring freezing weather to the whole d.a.m.ned city just by blowing on it. He touches things and they die. If he finds you here, he's going to think-""Think what?" interrupted a familiar voice."Oh, s.h.i.+t!" muttered Mallory, turning to face his newest visitor. "Doesn't anyone ever knock or even use a door anymore?"

The creature facing Mallory was tall, a few inches over six feet, with two prominent horns protruding from his hairless head. His eyes were a burning yellow, his nose sharp and aquiline, his teeth white and gleaming, his skin a bright red. His s.h.i.+rt and pants were crushed velvet, his cloak satin, his collar and cuffs made of the fur of some white polar animal. He wore gleaming black gloves and boots, and he had