Jerry followed the huge wizard to the door lost in thought.
“You look as if you have something pressing upon your mind,” Bal-Simba said as he held the door for him.
“Well, yes Lord,” Jerry said as they stepped out into the courtyard. He sighed. “Look, I know this is a new environment and it’s a completely different culture and all, and I know that even the laws of nature are different here.” He stopped and for an instant looked as if he might cry. “But Lord, this place gets weirder every day!”
Bal-Simba nodded and looked back at the Bull Pen. “My thought precisely,” he said in a bemused tone.
Wiz eased his way down the corridor, hugging the wall and keeping a tight grip on his rusty halberd head. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear the faint drip, drip, drip of water. Dripping water meant running water and running water was likely to be cleaner than the foul musty slop he had found so far. So in spite of his misgivings, Wiz pressed on. It was so cold his breath hung in puffs before him. Short, sharp puffs because Wiz was panting from fear.
The corridor was utterly still and completely empty. Save for the soft dripping and the even softer pad of his own feet there was no sound at all. When he stopped the quiet pressed in around him like a smothering cloak.
Most of the lanterns in the stretch still worked, albeit dimly, holding the dark at bay and leaving the shadows as patches in the corners, to writhe threateningly each time the lamps flickered.
At first Wiz thought the patch ahead of him was another shadow. But it did not shift or vanish as he approached. In the dim light he was almost on top of it before he realized what it was.
In the center of the corridor lay a bloody heap of dark robes wrapped about a thing which might have been a wizard. The head had been smashed like a melon and there was a smear of blood and yellowish brains on the wall beside the corpse. The arms and legs stuck out at impossible angles and the torso was bent backwards as if it had been broken like a dry stick over a giant knee.
Wiz gasped and shrank back against the wall. There were killers aplenty in the ruins, he knew, but nothing he had seen or heard that had the power to take a wizard—or the sheer ferocity to do this.
Then Wiz looked more closely. There was steam rising from the sundered torso, steam from the shattered skull as the corpse gave up its body heat to the surrounding cold. There were even faint wisps of steam coming from the pools of blood surrounding the remains. The wizard had been dead for only minutes. Whatever had done this had to be nearby.
Wiz turned and ran, all thoughts of fresh water forgotten.
Nineteen : Half-Fast Standard Time
Putting twice as many programmers on a project that is late will make it twice as late.
—Brooks’ law of programming projects
“Good morning,” Karl said as he walked into his makeshift classroom.
The faces of his pupils showed they didn’t think there was anything good about it. Their expressions ranged from grim determination to equally grim disapproval. He didn’t know what methods Moira and Bal-Simba had used to round up the dozen or so blue-robed wizards who were sitting at the rows of tables in front of him, but he had heard hints of everything from cajolery to blackmail.
Well, Karl thought as he turned back to the blackboard. At least I don’t have to worry about this bunch throwing spitballs. He turned around to face the grim-looking men and women in their magician’s robes. Lightning bolts maybe, but no spitballs.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go back and review some basics.”
“You sent for me, Lord?” Jerry Andrews asked as he knocked on the door of Bal-Simba’s study.
The black wizard looked up. “I did. Please come in and close the door.”
Uh-oh, one of those meetings! Jerry thought as he complied.
“I wanted to find out if there was any way you can speed up your project,” Bal-Simba said as soon as Jerry sat down.