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"I can see it, not read it. Besides, it isn't something that can be
pronounced, but it would fry Aristobulus or me to a crisp if we got inside the
city." She wrinkled her forehead. "Wait a minute. How did I "
"Comes with the territory," Slovotsky said. "Looks like wizards aren't too
popular there; probably cost the locals quite a bit to hire one to do the
work." He smiled. "But it looks like there's a pony in the bottom of this
shitbucket; want to check out the boxes for Glyphs?"
Karl frowned. "I thought you said Ahira wanted to wait."
"I'll check it out with him, first. But" he clapped a hand to Andy-Andy's
shoulder "it looks like you've got what it takes."
Karl suppressed an urge to knock Slovotsky's hand away from her. "Why don't
you go clear it with him, then?"
"Which was something else I wanted to talk to you about. You got any objection
to him being in charge?
Somebody's got to do it." Slovotsky's face was studiously blank.
Karl thought about it for a moment. In the game, he 'd a enjoyed his
occasional chances to be the team leader
. But this is for real. I may be good at the game, but this is for real
. "No. No objection. As long as there're no PMDs, or anything like that."
"PMD?" Andrea asked. "What's that?"
Slovotsky grinned broadly "Stands for Polish Mine Detector." He covered his
ears with both hands, and mimed stomping fearfully on the ground. '"
Boom
. Seriously, it's a technique for checking for traps. You send the
lowest-class character on ahead. If there's no trap, there's no harm. And if
there is, then you bring the player back into the game with a new character.
It's kind of hard on the old character, but "
She looked up at him. "You mean that it kills him. Or her."
"Right, but "
"But we won't have any of that," Karl said. "Not as long as I'm around."
"I can speak for myself, Karl." She scowled at both of them. "And I'm not
going to let myself be a guinea pig."
"Understood, Andrea." Slovotsky nodded and walked away.
"Karl, he seems so... sure of himself."
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"That's Walter. Possibly Hakim, too." Which was one of the things he'd always
envied about Slovotsky.
Always so sure of himself, no matter what. And so comfortable around women.
Karl shook his head. Even around Andy-Andy he felt awkward, gawky. And she was
a friend
.
"What are you thinking?"
He returned her smile with interest. "Nothing much." This was ridiculous. Here
he was, God knew where, more scared than he cared to admit, even to himself.
And thinking about how good it had felt to hold her. "And you wouldn't believe
it, anyway."
"Bets?"
"Well, what's the diagnosis?" Ahira asked.
"I think he's in shock." Kneeling over the limp form of Aristobulus, Doria
looked up at him. "Shallow breathing, thready pulse." Her fingers dipped into
the wizard's short gray hair. "And I think he might have hit his head on one
of the boxes; there's a bit of a lump here." She bent over, examining his head
more closely. "Although the skin isn't broken. Do you think there might be a
blanket or two in one of these boxes? We should keep him warm."
"No."
"What do you mean, no? He could die
."
Ahira repressed a smile; she wouldn't have understood. But that felt good;
Doria would never have contradicted James Michael Finnegan, would never, ever
have argued with a little cripple.
But I'm not a cripple anymore
. He bounced on the balls of his feet, reveling in how good, how natural it
felt.
I'm Ahira Bandylegs, and I'm strong. Better than normal
. "No, he won't die. Try your Healing spell, the one for minor wounds. I think
this should count as a minor wound."
"But, James "
"But nothing. You're a cleric, a healer. You've been complaining about spells
buzzing around your head.
Here's your chance to get rid of one. You'll have to pray for it, to get it
back but we'll have plenty of time for that later."
Her face paled. "I I don't know if "
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"I trust you. Doria of the Healing Hand. And so would Aristobulus. Do it.
Now."
She nodded a reluctant agreement, and planted spread-fingered hands on the old
man's chest. The polish was gone from her nails, just as the fear of him was
gone from her manner. Perhaps, somewhere inside, Doria Perlstein was confused,
frightened. But not the cleric.
"Easy," he whispered. "It's going to be easy. You've done this a thousand
times."
Slowly, her eyes sagged shut, as her weight bore down on her arms, on
Aristobulus chest. The old man looked to be in bad shape; his skin was ashen,
his breathing barely perceptible.
Strange, liquid syllables issued from her barely parted lips, starting slowly,
then becoming a torrent.
Ahira could hear the words distinctly, tried to memorize them.
But he couldn't. Not a phrase, not a word, not a syllable. They vanished from
his mind like a snowflake melting on a palm.
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The volley of sound flowed into Aristobulus, his breathing becoming deeper, a
tinge of pink replacing the fishbelly pallor of his face. The fingers of an
outflung arm twitched, then curled, as his eyes snapped open.
Aristobulus sucked in air with a desperate gasp, and a stream of sound issued
from his mouth, obscenely guttural and harsh.
And like a striking snake, a bolt of lightning crackled from the tips of his
fingers, shattering the nearest of the boxes into a thousand charred, smoking
pieces.
"You idiot!" Ahira reached out, grabbed the wizard's throat, setting broad
thumbs against his windpipe
"Stop it!
Stop it
!" Doria's fists beat a rapid tattoo on his back.
Reluctantly, Ahira released Aristobulus, bouncing the old man's head against
the grass.
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