“Be careful with that. It’s vital evidence in a national security matter.”
The cops just looked at each other.
“Man,” the Asian muttered to his partner, “these designer drugs are bad stuff.”
Things got a little complicated once they got Pashley back to the station. While the police definitely had him on burglary, the dwelling was unoccupied. That bumped the offense down to something one step above a misdemeanor. The value of the toaster was less than a hundred dollars so it didn’t even qualify as grand theft. For a while the police thought they had Pashley on a charge of impersonating an FBI agent. Then they found out he was an FBI agent. Pashley’s urgent insistence that the toaster was vital evidence in a national security case didn’t help.
True to his word, the mayor found an office for Wiz and Llewllyn in the town hall. Granted, the room was so small the rough trestle table practically formed a barricade across it, but it was conveniently located just inside the main entrance. Both the location and the row of pegs for hanging cloaks and hats hinted at its former use. With Llewllyn sitting in the rickety chair and Wiz standing beside him the place was decidedly claustrophobic. Still, it would do.
Word had obviously spread about the new consulting service. A man was waiting for them when they arrived that morning. Wiz had wanted to spend a few minutes briefing Llewllyn, but obviously he wasn’t going to get the chance.
Llewllyn, however, seemed to have no doubts at all. “Come in,” he called to the man waiting in the hall. “Never mind my associate here,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand at Wiz. “What is the nature of your problem?”
“I’ve been hexed is my problem,” the man declared. “Werner the Butcher, he put a curse on me.”
It took Wiz a minute to realize that “butcher” was the hexer’s occupation, not a nickname.
“How do you know?” he asked.
The man looked at Llewllyn and he nodded for him to answer Wiz’s question.
“Me business is gone to blazes, that’s how I know. Hardly a customer since that black-hearted miscreant cursed me. Worse, I can’t get to sleep no more. I toss and turn through the night. I want that curse lifted.”
“When did you notice you were having trouble sleeping?” Wiz asked.
“After I was cursed, of course!” The man looked at Llewllyn. “He simple or something?”
“No,” Llewllyn assured him, “merely an assistant.”
Wiz cleared his throat.
“Ah, associate actually,” the sometime bard amended hastily. “A specialist in another area, but quite competent I assure you.”
The man snorted and turned his attention completely to Llewllyn.
“Ah, yes,” the young man said, “it so happens I have a special amulet, hewn from the heart of the black oak that grows by the Southern Swamp, prepared by the great wizard Actantos himself. A sure cure. And I can let you have it for just . . .”
Wiz cleared his throat more forcefully.
“But I’m sure you don’t need anything so powerful,” he finished hurriedly.
“Now suppose you tell me what led up to the cursing.”
“Will this really help?” The man sounded skeptical.
“Magic is a matter of information,” Llewllyn assured him. “The more information the more effective the magic.”
“Well, Werner’s a surly one. Got his skill in magic from his gran on his
momma’s side. She was a first cousin once removed of Old Lady Fressen, and
. . .”
Llewllyn cut short his reminiscences. “On the other hand, there is such a thing as too much information. Perhaps you can skip ahead to the day the curse was laid.”
“That was nigh on two week ago, when I caught Werner picking my whiffleberries.”
“He was in your orchard?”
“No, no. The whiffleberry bush is right by the garden wall and some of it hangs over into his garden. Well, since time immemorial there’s been an agreement that what’s on his side of the wall belongs to him. But I look out this afternoon and here’s Werner poaching. He had a whole limb pulled over to his side, he did and he was clearly taking berries that were on my side of the wall.”