“What would you then, Madame?” demanded Zulkeh. “I am a thaumaturge, not a merchant. Rich in intellect, logic and lore—yet not, it must be said, overburdened by material wealth.”
“No tickee, no washee,” sneered the salamander. With great disdain, the loathsome little creature flicked the gold nuggets off the table with its tail.
Suddenly, Magrit grinned. “Never mind,” she laughed, “I just couldn’t resist the needle. ‘Not overburdened with material wealth’—hah! The fact is, Zulkeh, I knew you were coming. And I already know how you’re going to pay me for my help. You’re going to do a job for me.”
“What?” demanded the mage. “How did you know I was coming? And what is this—if I may use the uncouth expression—’job’ you are talking about?”
“As to your first question, I found out you were coming yesterday. An old friend dropped by and told me. You may know him—Wolfgang Laebmauntsforscynneweëld.”
“The fraud!” cried Zulkeh and Ignace in one voice.
“The philosopher!” exclaimed Greyboar.
Magrit sneered. “You’re all full of shit. He’s no fraud, and, as for you, Greyboar, I don’t suggest you call him a philosopher to his face. Professional fingerwork be damned, he’s big enough he’d probably tie you in knots.”
“Quite a large individual,” agreed Greyboar, not, or so it seemed, noticeably distraught at the implied threat. “Eight feet tall, as I remember.”
“You’ve met him?” asked Magrit, surprised.
“We were not properly introduced,” explained Greyboar. “But I attended one of his lectures in New Sfinctr some time ago. A most fascinating evening! The philo—uh, how does he respond to ‘thinker’—?”
“Prefers to be called a lunatic,” said Magrit.
“And quite rightly!” exclaimed Zulkeh.
“—lunatic, then,” continued Greyboar, “clarified the powers of madness and amnesia, and their capacity for wreaking good and justice in the world. I enjoyed the exposition immensely! Although, I have to say, I didn’t understand most of it, seeing as how it was delivered in a peculiar argot.”
“The common, everyday babble of idiots,” explained Magrit. “It’s his favorite language for public discourse.”
“Ah! That explains it, then!” Greyboar scratched his head. “The question and answer period was not especially fruitful, I will admit. Wolfgang answered every question with the statement that he had forgotten the answer.”
Now did the wizard, who had been impatiently following this dialogue, interject himself forcefully.
“Madame, you cannot be serious in this project, whatever it is! To bring in the person of Wolfgang Laebmauntsforcynneweëld! Well! Madame! The man is known the world over as a sciolist, a medicaster, a humbug, a hoaxster, a trepan, a—”
“Want me to get the chicken fat, Magrit?” interrupted the slimy amphibian. Zulkeh clamped shut his jaws and glowered at the horrid beast.
“Much as I hate to be on the same side as the pedant,” chipped in Ignace, “I’ve got to tell you I think he’s right, Magrit. I was at that same lecture with Greyboar, and let me tell you it was pure and simple gibberish. I mean, that big clown probably couldn’t—”
“Shut up!” snarled Magrit. “Both of you! The day I want your opinions, I’ll ask for them. Ha! Eternity won’t be long enough. Others may laugh at Wolfgang’s twin powers of madness and amnesia, but I’m not one of them.”
“Besides, she’s sweet on him,” piped up the salamander. It scampered to the edge of the table, away from Magrit’s fierce look. “‘Course, she’s sweet on lots of—” It sprang to the floor, evading the witch’s backhand. Once on the floor, it looked back at Zulkeh.
“Sorry, old boy,” sneered the beast. “I know the truth hurts, but you might as well know your ex-girlfriend’s a nymphom—” It darted into a nearby mousehole, one scuttle ahead of a hurled teacup. A moment later, its head popped back out.
“Missed, you slut!” The head disappeared as a volley of teacups landed about the mousehole.
“Madame!” exclaimed Zulkeh. “If you might leave be this interchange with that horrid creature, let us please come back to the subject at hand!”
Magrit turned on him, teacup in hand. Zulkeh flinched. After a moment, she took a deep breath and slammed the teacup back on the table.
“Why’d I have to get a salamander for a familiar?” she demanded to no one in particular. “Sassy little slimeball! Should have settled for a cat like a sensible witch—a cute little furball, sweet, dumb, playful—”