Accessory - Dragon Magazine #111.pdf - Index of

eposed on end, propped up by a barrow of unshelved
books. From one remnant of the wrecked cart a black iron
mace protruded, spiky head deeply imbedded in the soft
wood. Here was a basic how-did-it-get-there problem.
The library aisle was so narrow that there was no way
Charlene’s newfound Geographic fan could have wheeled
the cart around her; and had he chosen to wheel it over
her supine body, she would have known about it — she
wouldn’t have been surprised, but she would have known.
Which meant it had been tossed; just hefted up and
tossed lightly overhead the length of the aisle.
Charlene made a grimace at the thought of explaining
all this to Mr. Ballard. Her supervisor never did care for
jocks let loose to root among the books. He was ticked
enough with her already. He had sent her into the stacks
for daring to snap back at a full professor who insisted that
the volume he wanted had to be in the 800s and it was all
her fault that it was not.
“A place for everything and everything in its proper
place,” she had told him. “That is the only sensible way to
run a library.” When she produced the errant volume and
triumphantly pointed out the 300 classification on its
spine, the man had complained.
Damage to the egos of tenured faculty was a misdemeanor,
damage to library property a mortal sin. Mr.
Ballard — and her own tidy soul — would demand justice,
or at least retribution. She returned her attention to
the perpetrator. At least he wasn’t naked any more. He
never had been, really. Charlene blamed his former
crouching posture and her own myopia for allowing her to
overlook the blessed scrap of chamois dangling fore and
aft between his thighs.
She twisted the top button of her blouse for luck and
said, “I am Miss Atwater, young man. I’ll have to ask
you for some identification.”
She gave a little squeak as he thrust the skull-decked hilt
of his sword an inch from her nose. Blue eyes narrowed,
face a study in concentration, he traced a seemingly senseless
pattern of swoops and curlicues in the air before her
face. She only flinched twice, when he jabbed the golden
skull at her eyes. He snorted again, nodded, and sheathed
the sword, satisfied.
“I’m afraid that won’t do, young man,” Charlene said
when she felt able to speak.
He ignored her. “Not one of his sendings. Good. Get
up, woman.”
“Young man, I must insist.”
He gave her no chance to insist on anything. “I said get
up!” He seized her wrist and gave it a playful tug that
converted her from grounded to airborne in a whip
snake’s flick. She rebounded from his chest before landing
on her feet. The fleeting contact was very warm and . . .
not subject to immediate classification.
Charlene had trouble dealing with ordinary people. She
was one of those poor souls that unprincipled tradesmen
gloat over as they heartlessly cancel appointment after
service-call appointment at the last minute, only to hear
her apologizing profusely to them. Still, even the meek are
human, and subject to the corrupting influence of power
— more so than others, actually. It is an intoxicant that
affects the novice worse than the habitué. In the outer
74 JULY 1986
world, she might be nothing and no one, but here in the
stacks with the whole weight of ALA backing her, she was
Authority! (Barring the unscheduled arrival of Mr.
Ballard.)
She pushed herself away from the swordsman and drew
her shoulders back. “If you don’t show me some acceptable
identification at once, I am going to phone Security!
You don’t belong here, and I am going to see to it personally
that you get out!”
She might get her head cut off, but she had done her
duty for God, for country, and for Yale.
Instead of a casual lop of the sword, Charlene found
herself in receipt of a nose-squashing hug that brought
tears to her eyes — not that she was sentimental, but the
impact dislodged one of her contact lenses. As she fumbled
it back into place, she heard a stream of oaths invoking
the names of a whole pantheon of exotic gods.
She assumed they were gods. The jumbled syllables
sounded like the names of generic antihistamines, and this
fellow was definitely not Yale Med School material.
“Beautiful lady, gracious goddess, blessed wench!” the
Med School reject cried, kneeling at her feet with the
sword a comfortable distance away. “Your wisdom pierces
his malice! Yes, yes, who but a sorceress of the highest
power would be able to tell at a glance that I don‘t belong
here! Who but a goddess would have the boundless mercy
to promise that she will get me out? Personally! The
words of the Oracle of G’narchuk are fulfilled! Into an
alien world shall your enemies cast you, seeking your
death, yet there shall a different death be found! By Limbranol’s
spear, we’ll give that demon-cursed wizard a
surprise!”
Here he embraced her knees. Then, abruptly, he was
on his feet and ready to discuss barbaric bottom lines. The
skull-hilted sword was again in his grasp — Charlene
watched awestruck as he flourished the two-handed blade
with one hand only — which gave him a certain bargaining
power that the School of Organization and Management
never covered in its seminars.
“Well, wench, what’s your price?”
“I beg your pardon !” Charlene tugged her straight twill
skirt even straighter.
“What do you want from me?” he amended.
“Exactly what I’ve been requesting for the last half an
hour, young man: your name, thank you very much.”
The young man (not much older than Charlene herself,
although by a calendar based on three moons, a red sun,
and the mating cycles of wingless dragons) rubbed his
deeply cleft chin thoughtfully with his wrist. It was the
wrist attendant on his sword-hand, and the gesture
brought the blade dangerously close to his own neck.
“My name. . . A weirding of great power, or I’m a
grig. Yes, I have heard of such debts. To name is to own,
yet what can I do? You are my only hope of seeing home
again and washing my blade in Cambrac’s blood. My
name . . .” He grunted.
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” said Charlene. “Give me
your name.” She was relieved to see that the interloper
was at last cooperating, even more relieved when he lowered
that sword. Half-naked warriors in the stacks might
be explained, given enough time, but if this one were