New Decameron Seventy-Four: Grace Seybold

Magicians at Law

by Grace Seybold

The beast leaned forward across Adelaide Beewright’s desk, his claws digging into the wood. “It is mine,” he growled, sulfurous breath yellowing the air. “Mine. I want it. I shall have it. And you, mortal, will help me.”

Beewright met the beast’s fiery gaze with a tight, professional smile, mentally adding the costs of refinishing the desk and having the office’s soft furnishings steam-cleaned to her consultation fee. “I’ll certainly do my best,” she said, “and my best is very good. As you know, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“The Hundred-Headed Chlarr spoke well of you,” the beast admitted.

“But,” Beewright continued, raising an admonishing finger, “I can’t guarantee anything. And there will be no unseemly behaviour from you should we lose. I believe you understand me.”

“Shall we sign a contract on it?” the beast rumbled, a note of amusement in his voice.

“I think not,” Beewright said, relaxing inwardly. This one understood the rules, at least, well enough to joke about them; there wouldn’t be any shenanigans. Any contract had loopholes; she and her partner knew that better than anyone. Their protection came partly from the law, true, but at least as much from the roster of illustrious clients who would be extremely displeased to lose the services of Beewright & Turtlewise, Magicians-At-Law.

“Now, if you’ll have a seat,” she continued, gesturing at the office’s least flammable chair, “we can start by going over the agreement in question. I presume you brought a copy with you?”

“We have got to find somewhere else to see clients.” Beewright sipped her tea and grimaced at the taste. Outside the narrow kitchen’s high barred window, the evening clouds were purple with the approaching thunderstorm. “He’s even made the water taste funny.”

“I don’t think that was the client,” Nick Turtlewise said mildly. “That stuff really isn’t meant for humans.” He tilted the tea tin toward the light and tapped it with a fingernail. A halo of sparkles glittered around it, and faint crystal chimes sounded, slightly off-key. “Also it’s expired. I don’t think the Mouse King is all that good with human time.”

“It was a gift,” Beewright said. “And I happen to like it. Normally. You’re just excessively picky is all.”

“Not to mention fond of having an undamaged digestive system.” Turtlewise sighed. “Anyway, I’m not saying I don’t want to rent a separate office. I just don’t see how we can.”

“I know, I know.” Illustrious their clients might be, but they didn’t always pay especially well, or on time, or in currencies applicable to the mortal realm. Just getting the protections done on the apartment’s former living room had cost nearly a year of the firm’s income, and they’d already had the base spells in place for a living space. Setting up another location where they’d have to lay in the spells from the ground up— “Still, I can dream.”

“Yeah.” Turtlewise took down a mug and a sachet of his own tea—ordinary peppermint, with a bright printed label reading PROPERTY OF NICK DO NOT STEAL (he ordered them in batches of five hundred from the local Bureau en Gros, which made the prospect of stealing his things more tempting to Beewright than any of those items’ actual qualities did)—and upended the kettle. “Speaking of, how did it go with our new client, in the end?”

“I don’t have a great feeling about this one, to be honest,” Beewright said. “The poor guy’s pretty clearly just gotten himself into an agreement he doesn’t like the terms of and he’s trying to find a way to wiggle out.”

“Hm. I’m assuming, given the smell, this was a standard demonic service contract?”

Beewright nodded. “He was summoned by a witch about twenty years ago. The usual sort of request: access to power, procurement of forbidden lore, light housekeeping, et cetera, in exchange for the witch’s firstborn child.”

“Straightforward enough. And?”

“And said witch is now thirty-six and living happily alone in a tasteful duplex with a kitten and a cactus, and no kids nor any plans for same.”

Turtlewise blinked. “And the contract didn’t cover this possibility? That’s—fairly stupid.”

“Those contracts were mostly written in the tenth century,” Beewright pointed out. “The templates anyway. Most people update them as a matter of course, but I’m not entirely sure our client can read, let alone parse legal terms. I feel kind of bad for him, really; he’s obviously out of his depth here. You should have heard the way he was carrying on.”

“I did,” Turtlewise said blandly, tapping the plaster wall.

“We have got to figure out a better office. Anyway, he’s been outfoxed by a witch who summoned him when she was sixteen—precocious creature, I must say—and he’s not happy.”

Turtlewise took a long sip of his tea, his glasses opaqued with steam. “This is just brainstorming,” he said, “but I know how Moth would suggest handling this.”

“Yes, well, there’s a reason I don’t work with Moth anymore,” Beewright said sharply. “And leaving aside the moral repugnance of magically arranging a birth control failure or a fairy pregnancy or whatever, might I point out that Moth is another one who tends to forget it isn’t the tenth century anymore. Given the choice between aborting an unplanned pregnancy and handing a baby over to a denizen of the fiery abyss, I imagine any sensible witch would make the same choice I would.”

“Hey, no, same. I wasn’t actually suggesting it,” Turtlewise protested. “Just, you know, spitballing.”

“Well, don’t.” Beewright looked down at her mug, surprised to find it empty. Illusory mouse courtiers cavorted on the mug’s rim. Some of them had too many heads or legs; maybe the tea had gone off. She sighed. “Anyway, that’s not what the client asked for.”

“He just wants out of the contract?” Turtlewise asked, surprised. “Huh. That should be a bit easier, then.”

“No,” Beewright said wearily. “He wants the kitten.”

The witch’s name was Bethany Rampart, and her cool green gaze across the coffee shop’s small table was faintly amused. “So Jim decided to lawyer up, did he?” she asked rhetorically. “Funny. I’d have expected him to go for something with a few more explosions.”

“Jim?” Beewright repeated.

Rampart shrugged. “Control the name, control the thing. Even as a kid I knew that much. When he’s summoned into this world through my circle, he’s Jim, and it’s as much his true name as—well, you know.” She smiled. “At least, I assume you do.”

Beewright smiled back, her professional smile, giving away nothing. Anyone with brains would know someone in her position had to research her clients meticulously, lest she find herself embroiled in some deadly tentacle of the vast feuds and vendettas that spanned the multiverse. And only the truly naive would assume that didn’t extend to her clients’ adversaries as well—which was how Beewright came to be sitting in a cafe across the street from Bethany Rampart’s home, having delivered her polite invitation directly through the witch’s summoning circle.

“Actually, I can’t remember why I chose the name Jim particularly, anymore,” Rampart mused. “I suppose there must have been some reason, but—” She fingered the jade plaque that hung around her neck. “Well, you know. Things that seemed terribly important once—” She trailed off.

“I’m more interested in what’s important to you now,” Beewright said into the silence, deciding to come right to the point.

“Kingfisher,” Rampart said with no hesitation. 

“The cat,” Beewright said, allowing a note of deliberate skepticism into her tone.

“Yes, the cat.” Rampart’s voice sharpened. “I suppose you think I’m being unreasonable.”

“What I think isn’t really the issue,” Beewright said. “What Jim thinks is that he’s given you twenty years of good service—or service to the best of his ability,” she added as Rampart opened her mouth, “—and that he deserves some compensation for it. He thinks you took advantage of him, and that you never intended to honour your contract in the manner to which he was under the impression you both had agreed.”

“I’m not responsible for his impressions,” Rampart said. “And they’re frankly irrelevant to the contract we both signed. And which, might I remind you, Jim drafted. Or had drafted, anyway.” Her brow wrinkled. “Or got from somewhere. Whatever.”

“Nevertheless, there is a question of basic fairness at play,” Beewright pointed out. Rampart snorted.

“There’s no need to assume I’m stupid, Ms. Beewright. Or to pretend we don’t both know that exploiting contractual loopholes is practically proverbial where demons are concerned. For that matter, I’d imagine you’ve had a number of clients on the other side of things, haven’t you? No, I know you can’t discuss that. You’re a highly respectable lawyer, after all.” This was said with an edge of poisonous sweetness. “Naturally you want what’s best for everyone. Including this hypothetical baby you’d have liked me to hand over to him, I presume?”

“Also irrelevant,” Beewright said. “We’re past that point. He’s willing to settle for a cat, which I think is quite generous of him, under the circumstances.” She managed to keep her face composed as she said this. Her own feelings on the relative personhood of cats, she suspected, were in accord with the witch’s, but to admit it would be terrible negotiating tactics.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t offer him my cactus,” Rampart said. She pushed herself back from the table. “This is pointless. I knew it would be. I’ll see you in court, Ms. Beewright.”

Beewright smiled, and played her next card. “Which brings us to the matter of jurisdiction, Ms. Rampart.”

Rampart frowned. “That’s covered in the contract. Mutually acceptable arbitration—which, I can assure you, is an impossibility—or the Court of Lesser Suns.” A faint smile played about her lips. “Which is presided over by, I believe, Nas-Ivior the Capricious, Cat-Goddess of the Bright Demesne. Whom I doubt would be terribly happy to see an innocent kitten fall into the clutches of such a creature for whatever nefarious plans he has—planned.” 

“I see our client isn’t the only one who’s been working from obsolete information,” Beewright said. “Found that one in a book, did you? Castlechain’s Compendium of the Spheres and Regions, would it be? Published in eighteen-forty-one?”

“It’s a standard reference—”

Despite herself, Beewright snorted. “That’s because no-one else is foolhardy enough to try to duplicate Castlechain’s work. Granted the man was extraordinarily brave, not to mention unbelievably lucky to survive as many voyages as he did, but he was a slipshod academic. And unfortunately a lot of his mistakes have stayed in the references simply because tracking them down would involve a lot more risk than most tower magicians are willing to take.” She grinned wolfishly. “I’ve argued before the Court of Lesser Suns, Ms. Rampart. It’s an interesting place. Do you know one of the interesting things about it? The presiding judges rotate based on the ascendance of their governing stars. When I was last there, oh, six years ago, it was Old Daniel that I stood before. Do you know who that is?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Rampart said levelly, clearly dismayed but unwilling to show it. Beewright admired her composure.

“I’m not sure I ought to,” she said. “After all, it would probably be in my client’s best interest to simply let you go in unprepared. Whatever arguments you were planning to make to Nas-Ivior of the Bright Demesne would be, let’s say, received quite differently by Old Daniel.” She leaned back, trying to project relaxation and confidence, and took a sip of her coffee, which was by now disagreeably tepid. “But, to be honest, I’m not enthusiastic about making a trip to Lesser Suns, especially this time of year. So I’m offering you an out, in good faith. Agree to arbitration, here in the mortal realm, and we can avoid any unpleasantness that might otherwise ensue.”

“And I suppose you have an arbiter in mind, do you?” Rampart asked, with an attempt to salvage her sneer.

“Oh, I’m quite happy to consider whomever you propose,” Beewright said. “For that matter, I’m happy to give you some time to think it over. And to do a bit of research on Old Daniel, if you like, though I warn you, some of the material is a little grisly. But, frankly, I have a lot on my plate this month and I’d like to get this case done with, so I’d simply take a random arbiter from the ombuds pool, if you’re agreeable. Call it a gesture of mutual goodwill.” She set down her empty mug and rose. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you whenever you’d ready. Good day, Ms. Rampart.”

“So should I be packing for Lesser Suns?” Turtlewise asked resignedly.

“Hah. No. We’re going to arbitration.”

“Arbitration?” Turtlewise repeated. “How’d you get her to agree to that?”

Beewright shrugged. “She didn’t want to end up pleading her case before Old Daniel.”

“I thought Nas-Ivior was presiding over Lesser Suns this year.”

“I never said she wasn’t,” Beewright said virtuously. “What Ms. Rampart chose to take from my reminiscences about Lesser Suns is entirely her own affair.”

Turtlewise chuckled. “Remind me never to play checkers with you.”

“I wouldn’t anyways. You cheat. Also, you know most people’s version of checkers doesn’t involve bluffing, right?”

“Pfft.” Turtlewise waved a hand airily. “Most people are boring.”

Rain beat against the windows of the conference room, a bland rectangular space in a bland rectangular building. In better weather, it looked out at the eternal ouroborous of the Turcot Expressway, that concrete avatar of destruction and rebirth, constantly falling to ruin and being rebuilt; today the view was veiled by water, the endless crawl of red and white lights smeared into blurry lines. 

Beewright opened her briefcase and stacked paper folders and leather-bound tomes on the table in front of her: props, mostly, meant to convey an air of professionalism and gravity. She kept most of her important references on her phone, and the one really important bit of paper, Jim’s copy of the contract (she found herself referring to him that way even in her thoughts; she did know his true name, but the witch had been perceptive, he did look like a Jim), was spread in front of Nick Turtlewise, on accordion-folded dot-matrix printer paper with the holes still attached. They’d gone through it together, and it was indeed the standard template, no changes at all, no attempt at trickery or cleverness. Poor Jim, she thought.

The beast was pacing the perimeter of the room, waiting with no patience whatsoever for the witch to arrive. He’d already set fire to the ceiling’s acoustic tile twice, making the lawyers scramble to put it out before the fire-suppression system kicked in. The arbiter, a Considering Eye, floated a meter above the judge’s seat, humming and flickering occasionally, but otherwise not reacting to Jim’s restlessness. It was Beewright’s experience that Considering Eyes were fairly, one should pardon the pun, hands-off, which would hopefully make the whole thing easier. She’d once drawn an Avenging Eye from the ombuds pool in a previous arbitration, and it was an experience she hoped never to repeat. This, though, shouldn’t be too bad.

Turtlewise seemed much less sanguine, his eyes darting between Jim, the Eye, and the conference room door. “I’d almost rather be dealing with the Hundred-Headed Chlarr again,” he muttered. That was saying something, since every complaint in which they’d represented the Hundred-Headed Chlarr had been against itself. Beewright shrugged.

“I wouldn’t,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, Mocktangle & Moth can have them. I’m tired of their nonsense.” She sighed, and took a long drink of coffee from her travel mug, savouring the bitter taste. She hadn’t had the time or the magical funds to reach the Glorious Coffee-Ocean Dimension in weeks, and had had to settle for teleporting her morning pick-me-up from a little place in Venice whose owner was no doubt mystified as to why his orders occasionally disappeared and why his register total was so consistently five euros over. 

Turtlewise, she saw, was looking at her with concern. “You sure you’re okay, Addie?” he asked quietly. 

“Fine,” she said, with a glance at the Eye. “Just fine.”

“It’s just—you like cats. I know you do. If this is going to be hard for you—”

“Not the time, Nick,” Beewright said, more sharply than she’d intended. She made a conscious effort to soften her tone. “I appreciate the thought, but we’re here now, so let’s focus.” Turtlewise looked as though he’d have liked to say something more, but only nodded, busying his hands with straightening the printout before him.

At exactly eleven o’clock, the door swung open and Bethany Rampart strode into the room. She had a slim messenger bag over one shoulder, and in the other hand she held a soft-sided cat carrier, from which emanated a loud, aggrieved mewling sound. Her face gave away nothing as she took a seat at the other table and reached into the carrier to stroke the kitten reassuringly. Beewright had to admire the display of bravado. 

“All being present, proceedings may begin,” the Considering Eye buzzed. “Party the first, state your position.” Beewright opened her mouth to speak.

“It is my kitten,” Jim snarled. He glared around the room, daring anyone to speak. No-one did. “Well, it is,” he said, and dropped into the chair beside Turtlewise, who was trying to repress a sigh.

“Your Ocularity,” Beewright began politely.

“Position has been stated,” the Eye said. “Party the second, state your position.”

Rampart was plainly trying not to grin as she tapped her index cards into perfect straightness against her table. “Your Luminescence, I’d like to begin by offering as evidence a copy of the contract into which my counterpart and I entered by mutual agreement some twenty years ago—”

Well, Beewright thought. This is going to be exactly as much of a mess as I thought.

By lunchtime she thought she’d gained back some of the ground lost in that unpromising beginning, having at least managed to state their basic negotiating stance and to quell any further interruptions from the beast. They were certainly going to lose the damage deposit on the room rental, but at least the only damage so far had been to the ceiling and the carpet, and not to any of the participants. Not that even a denizen of the abyss could likely harm an Eye, but the attempt would probably count against them when it came time for their arbiter to render a ruling.

At the moment, Rampart and Turtlewise had wandered into the thicket of some side issue to which Beewright was listening with half an ear as she flicked through the pages of the contract itself. The Eye seemed content to let them wrangle. 

“Is it not true that you referred to the aforesaid cat as ‘my furry son’ on a number of occasions?”

“It’s an expression. Oh my gods. It’s an expression on the internet.”

Turtlewright managed to look skeptical at this. “And I suppose calling yourself his ‘cat mom’ is an ‘expression on the internet’ as well?”

“Excuse me, have you been on the internet?”

“Because I’d like to enter into evidence this series of captioned photographs you’ve posted to your—I believe this is what you call a ‘blog’—”

“Stop pretending you’ve never been on the internet! Oh my gods. Your Glimmership, I would like to enter into evidence this photograph—” Rampart scrolled rapidly through her phone, “—of a squid with its head in a coffee mug captioned ‘IT ME’ to demonstrate that sometimes I say things on the internet for humorous purposes and not to indicate actual facts—”

“Your Panopticality, I’d like to ask you to ignore the squid photograph on the grounds that shapeshifting is well within the capacity of a witch of Ms. Rampart’s abilities and she is expecting us to believe on the basis of no evidence whatsoever that it is not, in fact, a perfectly accurate photograph of her with her head in a coffee mug—”

“I’m about to put your head in a coffee mug, you—you—”

“Threats! Threats, Your Shininess!”

“Oh my gods—”

If nothing else, Beewright thought, her partner was doing a good job of getting the witch rattled. 

Unfortunately Rampart seemed to realize this at the same moment. “Your Radiance,” she said, and paused and took a deep breath. “Your Radiance, this whole line of argument is irrelevant. Regardless of anything I may have said on the internet, which I do not concede in any way, the fact remains that a human cannot give birth to a cat without significant magical assistance, and that the adoption of one is not in any way comparable to the adoption of a human being under the laws of either Quebec or the Abyssal Realm. Something that isn’t human simply cannot be the legal child of something that is.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Turtlewise said gamely. “A perfectly natural mutation—”

“Is not going to result in a housecat!”

“If a dinosaur gave birth to a proto-chicken, it would still be its child even though a different species.”

“Again, this hardly seems relevant. Dinosaurs can’t sign contracts.”

“Course they can.”

“Your Luminosity, please—”

“Will you never stop talking!” Jim roared, springing suddenly to his feet. Everyone turned to stare at him, Rampart’s mouth still slightly open. “You talk and talk and talk and nothing is settled! You try to armour yourself in silly words and meanwhile the mortal lifespan of my kitten ticks away! I should rend you limb from limb and cast you into eternal flame for this discourtesy! Look how bored it is in its little box! You—you—” Words seemed to fail him, and he slumped back into his seat.

“I’m sorry,” Rampart said icily, “are you now arguing that you deserve my kitten because you’d take better care of it than I do? Because I’m entirely happy to settle this dispute on that basis alone, Your Eyeness, if that’s the argument my esteemed counterpart is choosing to make.”

“We are absolutely not making that argument,” Beewright snapped.

“I would care for it excellently,” the beast growled.

“Jim,” Beewright said with a sigh, “stop talking.”

“What the hell would you even do with a kitten, anyway?” Rampart burst out.

“I would name it Grargrahar,” the beast mumbled, looking down at its claws twisting together in its lap, “and it would be my friend.”

Beewright and Turtlewise looked at each other. They looked at Jim. They looked at the kitten, which was currently asleep in the carrier with its tail tucked around its head.

“You, um.” Rampart rubbed at her temple. “You do know there are lots of other kittens out there, right?”

Jim snorted. “Impossible. Such marvelous creatures must be rare, and precious, and guarded. I will not give up my sole chance to obtain one.”

The lawyer and the witch exchanged glances. “Okay, I don’t mean this as rude in any way,” Beewright said slowly to Jim, “but how much of Earth have you actually seen?”

“Her basement. Your office. This room.” The beast frowned. “An island, long ago, with caves; I was bound to a small stone statue then. The ship of the sailor who found me there.” His voice was wistful. “He too had a kitten. It was fierce and cunning. It presented its soft belly as a ruse and then bit my finger.” He sighed. “Then I was trapped in an iron box and thrown into the sea. I thought often of that kitten during the centuries that followed, while I was alone in the dark. I suppose it must have died, eventually, but I pretended it had not, and was there with me. This kitten is very like that one. Such fuzzy ears.”

“Oh my gods.” Rampart closed her eyes. “Oh my very gods. Jim, I will get you the fuzziest kitten ever if this can be over with right now.”

“You are trying to deceive me,” Jim growled. “Just as you always have. If you could truly do this, I would dissolve all bonds between us and devote my existence to the happiness of this hypothetical kitten, but we both know—”

“Terms accepted!” Rampart snapped. “Terms accepted, Your Glowitude, please grant me a one-hour recess so I can go to the Humane Society and mind-fuzz them into forgoing the home visit and get Jim a rescue kitten and put this behind us, oh my gods I am so tired of all of you.”

“Granted,” the Considering Eye hummed. “All parties being satisfied, this judgment is recorded.” It flared and winked out in a little pop of displaced air.

An hour and forty-seven minutes later, the three humans stood bemusedly in the lobby of the conference centre, watching the beast playing with his new kitten. 

He had something like a glowing box in his hand, which the kitten watched avidly, tail lashing. There was a frantic meeping sound, and something like a fist-sized octopus with several pairs of eyes flipped itself free of the box and tumbled across the floor, the kitten scrambling in pursuit. The beast beamed. “He is fierce,” he rumbled proudly. “A mighty hunter. Also, he likes to sleep in warm places. Observe.” He took a deep breath and exhaled a spurt of flame across his arm. The kitten meowed inquiringly, and the beast scooped him up and deposited him in the crook of his elbow. The kitten snuggled against the heated skin, purring. “That noise means he is happy,” Jim told them. 

“I really, really wish I could put this on Twitter,” Rampart said. “Okay. You read the cat care pamphlets I gave you, right? About vaccinations and changing his litterbox and so on?”

“He is very tidy,” Jim said. He grinned toothily. “Although when I showed him my domain, he did choose to urinate on the Sand-Golem of Lokthenniel. This was most amusing. I rewarded him with the milk of the Ten-Thousand-Year Phoenix, which he enjoyed.”

The humans exchanged glances. “You also have to give him cat food,” Rampart said. “Or let him hunt birds and mice and things.”

“I will obtain the finest of damned souls and shrink them to the size of mice for him to eat,” the beast assured them.

“Well—yeeess,” Rampart said. “But also cat food. You can—no, you know what, I’ll show you how to teleport it out of a warehouse. I don’t think it’s a great idea for you to tackle the supermarket at this point.” Turtlewise nodded emphatically. Beewright decided that, on balance, this conspiracy to commit minor theft was something she could in good conscience ignore.

“It is an awesome responsibility,” Jim said, nodding sagely. He looked down at the kitten nestled asleep in the bend of his elbow, and his craggy face seemed to glow. “But I shall prevail.”

Outside, the rain still dripped sullenly onto the pavement. “Well,” Rampart said. “This wasn’t nearly as awful as I expected it to be.” She stuck out her hand, a little awkwardly, and Beewright shook it.

“I hope we won’t find ourselves here again, though,” Beewright said.

“Demon-summoning is a young woman’s game,” Rampart said. “I’m mainly using other methods these days. To be honest, I’ve only kept up the summoning circle this long because it seems like such a waste to have put all that effort into a fully protected workroom and not use it. But what else am I going to do with a space like that? I’ve thought about renting it out—every other duplex owner on the street does that—but they’ve got cute little two-bedrooms they can gouge students for. It’s not like a lot of prospective tenants are looking for ‘open-plan half-basement with full suite of magical protections and no shower.’”

Beewright and Turtlewise looked at each other. “So, question,” Turtlewise said to Rampart, ostentatiously casual. “How hard would it be to get a couple of desks down those stairs?”

********************************************

He tickles the cat, who jumps off his lap, affronted. Maya smiles. "That was fun," she says. "I liked the kitten and the reasons the demon wanted the kitten."

He laughs. "Yes, fun," he says."Good to have something cheering." He puts down a bowl of kibble beside his chair. The cat sniffs at it disdainfully then jumps up onto the librarian's desk and curls up, ignoring them.

"What shall we read next?" Maya asks.

He pulls the next book off the pile. "Karl Schroeder. Forbidden Life."

"Yay, Karl Schroeder!" Maya says, and grabs it.

And they read.