On A Pale Horse

“Death,” the proprietor said clearly, showing the stone. It was a bright red ruby, multifaceted, set in a plain gold ring. It was a full carat—large for this quality.

Zane shook his head, experiencing a chill. “I don't want that one!”

The man smiled, an obviously perfunctory and practiced expression reserved for wavering marks. He was well dressed, but somewhat sallow, in the manner of those who remained in the shade too long. “You misunderstand, sir. This fine gem does not bring you death. It does the opposite.”

Zane was hardly reassured. “Then why call it—?”

“The Deathstone.” Again that annoyingly patronizing shaping of the face, as the proprietor eased the ignorant concern of the balky customer. “It merely advises the wearer of the proximity of termination, by darkening. The speed and intensity of the change notifies you of the potential circumstance of your demise—in plenty of time for you to avoid it.”

“But isn't that paradox?” Zane had seen such stones advertised, usually at prohibitive prices, but discounted the claims as marketing hyperbole. “A prophecy isn't valid, if—”

“No paradox,” the proprietor said with professional certainty. “Merely adequate warning. You could hardly obtain a better service, sir. After all, what is more precious than life?”

“That presumes a person's life is worth living,” Zane said sourly. He was a young man of no particular stature or distinction of feature, with acne scars that neither medication nor spot-spell had been able to eradicate entirely. His hair was dishwater brown and somewhat unkempt, and his teeth were unfashionably irregular. He was obviously a depressive type. “So it darkens, and you change your course, and you don't die. You figure the warning saved you. But it could be a random turning of the stone. Color-spells are a dime a dozen. No way to prove the prophecy was valid. On the other hand, if it fails to darken, and you die, how can you complain? You'll be dead!” He scratched distractedly at a scar. “If it's wrong, how do you get a refund?”

“You don't believe?” the proprietor asked, frowning expertly. Apart from his complexion, he was a moderately handsome man of early middle age whose hair was enchanted to carry a permanent chestnut wave. “I run a respectable shop. I assure you, all my spellstones are genuine.”

“According to the Apocalypse, Death rides a pale horse,” Zane said, warming to his melancholy. He evidently had some education in this area. “I question whether an inanimate object, a chunk of colored corundum, can stay that dread horseman so simply. Given the uncertainties of the situation, such a stone is of no practical use to the owner. He can only test it by seeing it turn, then refusing to change his course. If it is a valid prophecy, he is doomed. If it is not, he has been cheated. It's a no-win game. I have played enough of that type.”

“I will provide you a demonstration,” the proprietor said, perceiving a morbid streak that could make this customer vulnerable to an aggressive and properly slanted sales pitch. “Skepticism is healthy, sir, and you are obviously too intelligent to be deceived by defective merchandise. The value of the stone can be proved.”

Zane shrugged, affecting indifference. “A free demonstration? Can it be worth more than I pay for it?”

The proprietor smiled more genuinely, knowing that his fish, despite evasive maneuverings, was halfway hooked. Truly uninterested persons did not linger to argue cases. He took the stone from the magically theft proofed glass display case and proffered it.

Zane smiled quirkily and accepted the ring, putting it on the tip of his thumb. “Unless there's some immediate and obvious threat for the stone to point out—”

Then he was silent, for already the ring was turning. The bright red deepened to dark red, and then to opaque.

Zane's mind began to numb around the edges. Death—he had a deep guilt there. He looked at his left arm, feeling a spot of blood burning into the skin. He pictured the face of his mother as she died. How could he ever exonerate that memory?

“Death—within hours, suddenly!” the proprietor said, aghast. “The stone is absolutely black! I've never seen it turn so fast!”

Zane shook off his private specter. No, he could not afford to believe in this! “If I am to die within hours, I'll have no need of this stone.”

“Buy you do need it, sir!” the proprietor insisted. “With the Deathstone you can change your fate. Hold it and decide on a new course, and if the color returns, you know it's right. You can save your life! But you have to have this fine magical ruby to guide you. To steer you away from death. Otherwise you will surely perish before the day is out. That warning is emphatic!”

Zane hesitated. The Deathstone was an impressive item now. It had, as it were, not minced words. But he had been thinking about death while holding the stone, and that could have made the color turn. Emotion-indicator spells were simple and cheap, hardly deserving the name of magic. There could be many things like that to give false readings. Still—

“How much?” he asked.

“How much is life worth?” the proprietor asked in return, with a certain predatory gleam in his eyes.

“About two cents, if this stone is right,” Zane said grimly. Yet his heart was beating with nervous power.

“Two cents—per minute,” the proprietor said, going into the closing spiel. “But this phenomenal and beautiful stone is available presently at a discount of fifty percent. I will sell it to you for a mere one cent per minute, including principal, interest, servicing, insurance—”

“How much per month?” Zane demanded, seeing himself getting reeled in.

The proprietor brought out a pocket calculator and punched buttons dexterously. “Four hundred and thirty-two dollars.”

Zane stiffened. He had anticipated a high price, but this was impossible. A family could buy a good house for a similar figure! “How long?”

“Only fifteen years or less.”

“Or less?”

“In case the gem should miscarry, the insurance will pay off the balance owing, of course.”

“Of course,” Zane agreed with a wry quirk of his mouth. A miscarriage meant death, which meant a bum enchantment. They planned to collect their money regardless of the effectiveness of the Deathstone in protecting its owner. He performed a quick mental calculation and concluded he was being charged a little over seventy-five thousand in total. About two-thirds of that would be interest and other peripherals; still, it was a lot of money. A great lot! More, probably, than his life was worth. Literally.

He handed back the ruby. Its color returned rapidly as the proprietor took it. In moments its special, deep shade of red glowed beautifully in the lighting of the shop. A ruby was indeed a lovely gemstone, even when it wasn't magic.

“What else?” Zane asked. He was shaken, but still wanted to find something that would help him.

“Love,” the proprietor said immediately, bringing out a cloudy blue sapphire mounted on another gold ring.

Zane looked at the stone. “Love, as in romance? A woman? Marriage?”

“Or whatever.” The proprietor's smile was not quite as warm as it had been, perhaps because of the misstep on the prior stone. He did not enjoy seeing fish slip the hook. This gem was probably less expensive, meaning a smaller profit. “This fine stone brightens at the prospect of romance of any kind. Sapphire, as you know, is chemically the same stone as ruby; both are corundum, but because the colors of sapphire are not as rare as those of ruby, the value is less. This is therefore a bargain. It will tune in to your romance; all you have to do is follow its signal until you score.”

Zane remained skeptical. “You can't find romance by zeroing in as if it's a target! There are social aspects, complex nuances of compatibility—”

“The Love stone takes account of all that, sir. It orients on the right one, taking all factors into consideration. Left to your own devices, you are very likely to make a mistake, and suffer an unfortunate liaison, perhaps one that will become a grief to you. With this stone, that will never happen.”

“But there could be many excellent combinations,” Zane protested. “Many right women. How can a mere gem select among them?”

“Circumstances alter cases, sir. Some women are ideal for any man, with qualities of beauty, talent, and loyalty that make them highly desirable regardless of the variations in the males. But most of them are already married, as these qualities are readily perceived by the boy next door, lucky fellow. Others may be destined for some devaluing development, like a disfiguring illness or serious problems among their relatives. The Love stone knows; it orients on the most suitable, most reliable, most available individual. It is unerring. Simply turn it to obtain the brightest glow and follow where it leads. You will not be disappointed.” He held forth the blue sapphire. “One demonstration trial, sir.”

“I don't know. If it's like the last one—”

“This is romance! How can you lose?”

Zane sighed and took the stone. It was certainly pretty and twice the size of the Deathstone, and its theoretical power intrigued him strongly. A really good romance—what more could a man ask for?

As the ring touched his hand, the stone brightened, turning a lighter blue, becoming translucent. Again his mind faded to memory. Love—it was a second leg of his guilt. There had been a woman, nice enough, pretty enough, and she had wanted to marry him. But she had lacked the one thing he had to have. He had liked her, perhaps loved her, and she had certainly loved him—too much.

“The perfect romance—within the hour!” the proprietor exclaimed, seeming genuinely amazed. His voice snapped Zane out of his reverie. “You are a remarkably fortunate man, sir! I have never seen the Love stone so bright! So clearly directional!”

The perfect romance. He had, really, had that before. How could the stone know his particular needs? He returned it to the proprietor. “I can't afford it.”

“You can't afford love within the hour?” the man affected astonishment.

“Romance won't pay my rent.”

The proprietor nodded with sudden understanding. Something unscrupulous passed fleetingly through his expression. “So it is finance you lack!”

Zane took a deep breath. “Yes. I suppose I've been wasting my time here—and yours.” He turned to go.

The proprietor grabbed his arm, in his eagerness forgetting his savoir-faire. “Wait, sir! I do have a stone for you!”

“How can I pay for it?” Zane demanded sourly.

“You can pay for it, sir!”

Zane shrugged him off. “You know why the Deathstone turned black for me? Because I'll soon starve to death! I have no money. I don't know why I came in here; it was a completely irrational act. I can't afford the least of your magic gems. I apologize for deceiving you.”

“On the contrary, sir! I have a Sale stone set above my door; it glowed when you entered. You will purchase something here!” He snatched a stone from the display. “This is the one you want.”

“Don't you understand? I'm broke!”

“This is a Wealth stone!”

Zane paused. “A what?”

The proprietor held it out. “It brings money! Try it!”

“But—” Zane's protest was cut off by the thrust of the stone into his hand. This one was not set into a ring. It was an enormous star sapphire, well over a hundred carats, but of very poor quality. The color varied from cloudy gray to muddy brown, and there were concentric rings crossing the material and several black inclusions or imperfections. But the star was impressive; its six rays reached right around the polished hemisphere, and their intersection floated just above the surface. Zane blinked, but the effect remained; the star was not in, but above the stone. There was magic here, certainly!

“Not pretty, I admit, but my stones aren't marketed primarily for their appearance,” the proprietor said. “They are valued for their magic. This is as potent a spell stone as the others, but of a different nature. This is the one you want. It is virtually priceless.”

“I keep trying to tell you! I can't—”

“Priceless, I said. You can not purchase this jewel for money.”

“Not if it generates wealth!” Zane agreed, intrigued.

“That's right, sir. It produces wealth—all you'll ever need. Potentially thousands of dollars at a time.”

“But this is paradox again! How can you afford to sell such a stone? You should keep it for yourself!”

The proprietor frowned. “I confess the temptation. But there would be a prohibitive penalty. If I were to use any of these fine spellstones myself, none of the other stones would work for me. Not reliably. Their enchantments tend to cancel one another out. So I use very little of the magic, apart from the Sale stone, which actually facilitates business. I earn my living on commissions, using no other magic gems myself.”

Zane considered. The man could be concealing the fact that his stones were enchanted by black magic, helping to damn the person who used them. Drug dealers often did not use the drugs themselves, lest they be destroyed by their own product, and black magic was more insidious than drugs. Still, it was an answer. There were sellers, and there were users. “Then, what price?”

“Note the clarity of the star,” the proprietor said. “When you invoke the magic, the star floats right off the stone and does not return until the spell is complete. That way you know exactly when it is operating.”

This person was being evasive. “Assuming that it works,” Zane said.

“A demonstration!” the proprietor said, sensing a sale that would hold. “Gaze on the Wealth stone and concentrate on money. That is all it takes to invoke it.”

Zane held the stone and looked and concentrated. In a moment the star floated right off the stone, its rays dangling like legs, and cruised slowly through the air. It was working!

Then Zane's awareness faded to a dismal memory—the gaming table, compulsive gambling, the losses mounting—he had been such a fool with money! No wonder he was broke! If only it had stopped there...

The star dropped low, going toward Zane's foot. He stepped back, but it followed as if pursuing him. “Watch wherever it leads,” the proprietor said.

“Suppose it leads me to someone else's wallet? To a bank vault?”