Description: Chapter 1 Wira was uneasy. Her husband Hugo had been absent half an hour, and it wasn't like him to stay away longer than he said. Especially not this night. For tonight, after seventeen years of marriage, Hugo's father, Good Magician Humfrey, had finally removed the Spell of Hiding that kept the storks from being aware of Wira no matter how ardently she summoned them. She was fifty-five years old chronologically, thirty-three physically, and her thyme was starting to wilt. If they waited much longer, the storks would never deliver to her, regardless of any spell. This time the signal would go out. She knew that Hugo was eager to send that signal, and so was she. Where was he? He had gone to the cellar to fetch a celebratory bottle of Rhed Whine. That should have taken no more than ten minutes, and he would hardly have dawdled. Something was wrong. Wira got off the bed, donned a nightrobe and slippers, and made her way out of their chamber. She pattered down the familiar stairs to the ground floor, and thence to the cellar. She knew every crevice of the castle, of course, and made no misstep. But as she reached the cellar floor, she experienced a faint tinge of uneasiness. Her magic talent was Sensitivity, and though it normally applied to people, plants, and animals, it could sometimes attune to situations. This situation was uncomfortable. "Hugo?" she called tentatively. There was no answer. The tinge became less faint. In fact it intensified into a wary semblance of dread. "Hugo, where are you?" she called less tentatively. There was a definitely untentative silence. Something was wrong. Not only was Hugo absent, there was something else in the cellar. She smelled its misty essence. She snapped her fingers. Little magic echoes bounced off the cellar walls and floor, verifying its dimensions. Except for a muffled place on the floor, the vague shape of a man lying down. Had Hugo fainted? But this wasn't Hugo. The shape was vaguely wrong, and of course the smell. She squatted and reached forward to touch it. Her fingers encountered a clammy kind of flesh. It was definitely not quite alive. Wira screamed. The Gorgon, Humfrey's Designated Wife of the Month, and coincidentally also Hugo's mother, was the first to respond. "Wira, dear," she called from the head of the cellar stairs. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?" "Oh, Mother Gorgon, there's a dead man here, and I think he's not quite human. And Hugo is gone." There was half a pause. "This bears investigation. Let me fetch a lamp." Wira waited by the body while the Gorgon got the lamp. Wira did not need light, of course, as she was blind. She had always been that way, and really did not mind it as long as she was in familiar territory. But others had some kind of problem with darkness. She heard the returning footsteps, smelled the curling vapors of the lamp, and felt its slight warmth. There was also the faint sibilance of a small nest of snakes. The Gorgon was back and ready to take charge. Wira had always gotten along well with the Gorgon. That was partly because the Gorgon's face tended to turn others to stone, but Wira could not see it, so was not at risk. That enabled them to be friends without precautions. The Gorgon was actually a very nice person, but strangers tended to be prejudiced by her magic face, and were nervous about her snake hair. The snakes were normally friendly, and could be good company on a dull day. "It is definitely a body," the Gorgon said. "It's not breathing and it's cold, so it must be at least halfway dead. But who killed it, and what is it doing here?" Wira had a horrible thought. "Oh Mother Gorgon, you don't suppose Hugo could have-have-" "Of course not, dear. Hugo doesn't have a murderous bone in his body. Not even a stiff one, as far as anyone knows. When are you two going to signal the stork?" "Tonight," Wira said, blushing. Sometimes the Gorgon's language was a trifle serpentine. But she had reason: her sister the Siren was long since a grandmother. She seemed to have forgotten about the stork-hiding spell. Now the Gorgon had a nasty thought. "You don't suppose he could have gotten cold feet, or whatever?" "Never," Wira said positively. "He wanted to-to do it. To be a father." The Gorgon sighed. "He's so young." "Mother, he's forty-three." "Exactly." Wira didn't argue the case. Technically she was a dozen years older than Hugo, but she had been youthened to sweet sixteen to marry him, so seemed a decade younger. Mothers always thought their sons were too young. "He wouldn't have left without word to me. Especially not tonight. Something must have happened to him." The Gorgon was focusing on the body. "I have another foul thought. Maybe somebody killed this poor man, dumped the body here, and abducted Hugo to frame him for the murder. That would explain everything." "Except where Hugo is, and who the victim is, and who the real murderer is," Wira agreed. "Yes, there may be a detail or three to fill out. We'd better get Humfrey in on it." "But it's nighttime," Wira protested. "He gets grumpy when disturbed at night." "He gets grumpy any time," the Gorgon said. "You don't see much of it because you have an ameliorative effect on him. I think if he'd been half a century younger he would have married you himself." "Mother Gorgon!" Wira exclaimed, horrified. "Oh come on now, girl. You know he's taken with you." "Because I'm his daughter-in-law." "That, too. Anyway, he already has about five wives too many; he certainly doesn't need any more. Now I'm going to get him up, grumpy or not, and bring him down here to fathom the situation. It will give him another pretext to bury himself in the Book of Answers." "Oh, I hope the Answer is there!" Wira breathed. "I miss Hugo so much!" "He's been gone only half an hour, dear." "Yes, and it's awful." The Gorgon gazed at her. Wira could tell when someone was looking at her; there was a certain subtle mood. "You really do love him, don't you, dear." "Yes!" "And that is why I am taken with you, Wira. Without you he's pretty much a rotten-fruited gnome." "He is not!" "Of course not, dear," the Gorgon agreed, smiling knowingly. Wira could also tell when a person was smiling; it curled up the corners of the voice. Then the Gorgon went off to roust out the Good Magician. Wira remained in the cellar, uncertain what else to do. She knew the Gorgon meant well, but the woman sometimes unnerved her. Meanwhile, there was this awful situation to deal with. Could someone really have tried to frame Hugo for the murder? To make it seem that he had committed a terrible crime, and fled the scene? But how could such a thing have been done here, in the Good Magician's Castle? The castle was enchanted to exclude all but the most powerful magic. Yet something of the sort had happened. That was frightening in itself. She checked the shelves along the cellar wall, just in case there was some indication that would help resolve the mystery. She knew the stored potions by the shapes of their bottles and faint odors. The first shelf held bottles of pills from pharm-assist plants that a pill pusher had harvested for the Good Magician long ago. The pills lent certain temporary talents to those who swallowed them. There were gra-pills that enabled folk to wrestle well, purr-pills that caused folk to turn reddish blue while feeling very satisfied, and ap-pills that kept doctors away. Also princi-pills for those lacking in ethics, sim-pills for those with too much intellect, and pill-fur coats for those who didn't mind stealing clothing. All was in order, undisturbed. The next shelf contained assorted gloves or mitts reserved for particular Challenges: an amity, which made a person very friendly; an enmity, which had the opposite effect; a hermit, which was a solitary lady's glove; an imitate that enabled a person to copy things; a comity that made the wearer courteous; an emit that caused a stink; an omit that somehow had been left off the list; a submit that could be used underwater; a permit that allowed almost anything; and an admit that added a glove and also let a person into the castle. At the end of the shelf was a vomit that she knew better than to touch. None had been disturbed. The problem seemed to be confined to the (ugh) body. "Ludicrous, woman," Humfrey's voice came g

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