The Deavys (5 page)

“Congratulations, big brother!” Amber was standing on tiptoe to give him a kiss. The other girls had also crowded around him.

“All right, all right!” he exclaimed, shaking them off like so many clinging hothouse flowers. “Pithfwid's right. Now we're going to have to really hurry if we're going to make it home before Mom and Dad.”

“Yeah.” Rose spat in the direction of the mass of Furk mess. It was slowly being dissolved and washed away by the rain. “I
hate
having to fight beings of insubstantiality. Regular spells just do not work right on them. Can't get a proper purchase.” Suddenly, she remembered her sister and turned to smile at N/Ice. “No offense, sis.”

“None taken,” the one who sometimes wasn't entirely all there stiffly replied, at the same time contemplating how best to slip a little itching powder into her sister's new bra.

Soaked and sodden but reasonably well pleased with themselves, they made it back to the house a good half hour before Melinda Mae returned from her daylong meeting with the opponents of the proposed urban development and well before their father returned from work. The children held the planning meeting in the coubet's room, not only because there was more space, but because Simwan had a thing about having girls in his room. At least girls who were his sisters.

Having set their respective tablets to start the homework they had missed completing, they considered their next step. Though most excellently enchanted, the tablets were not capable of completing class assignments on their own, only of organizing and beginning them. No spell could compensate for the absence of creativity and originality, both qualities that were prized by the local teachers. N/Ice had been trying to figure out a way to enchant her machine to achieve this. Each time she failed, and it ended up costing her a grade or two on the paper in question. She had been reduced to grumbling and complaining while being forced to actually read books and do some honest work.

“Okay,” Simwan told them, “so we'll find a way to track down the Crub once we get to New York. We can ask in the right places, and we can ask in the wrong places, and once we've run it to ground, we'll take the Truth back from it. It's not going to be easy, and it's probably going to be dangerous, but we have to find a way to do it. One step at a time. The first step is how to convince Mom and Dad to let the four of us—”

“Five,” Pithfwid reminded him.

“Sorry … the five of us, go to New York? Without adult supervision?” Straightening, he stood a little self-consciously taller in front of Amber's closet. “I mean, I consider myself an adult, but …”

“It must be lonely,” Rose mused solemnly, “to be the sole holder of an opinion.”

He glared at her. “I suppose you think you're more mature? More grown-up? And that they would let the three of you go without me?”

“Of course they wouldn't,” N/Ice pointed out from where she was bobbing gently against the ceiling. “But they're not going to let us go and stay there with just you to watch over us, either. Even if Pithfwid comes with us.”

Amber was sitting cross-legged on her bed. Or rather, an inch above it. That way, she didn't mess up the covers. “They'd let us go if we had adult supervision while we were there.”

Simwan and her sisters turned to her, and even Pithfwid perked up at the possibility a worthwhile suggestion, as opposed to the usual young human nonsense, might be forthcoming.

“Who do we know in New York who'd let us stay with them, who'd have room enough, and who wouldn't try to keep an eye on us all the time and report back to Mom and Dad every five minutes?” Rose demanded to know.

The mischievousness in Amber's voice formed a small pink glow in front of her mouth, as if she was blowing cherry smoke rings. “Uncle Herkimer!”

Rose looked at N/Ice as her sister descended excitedly from where she had been hovering near the ceiling. “Of course! Uncle Herkimer wouldn't mind. I'd think he'd be glad of the company.”

“If I were him, I sure would be,” N/Ice readily agreed.

“I don't know.” Simwan was less enthusiastic. “Staying with Uncle Herkimer presents problems of its own. You know how he is. I don't know if they'll go for it.”

“Sure they will.” With a soft plop of welcoming linens, Amber settled down on her bedding. “He has plenty of room, or at least he used to, and he'll be gearing up for All Hallow's. We can help out with the decorating.” She was all but bouncing with excitement. “That gives us a place to stay, with supervision, but with somebody who won't be looking over our shoulders all the time. Besides,” she added, “I
like
Uncle Herkimer.”

“Me too,” added Rose. “If we run into trouble, he might even be able to help us track down the Crub without telling Mom and Dad about it. You know Uncle Herkimer: He can inveigle lines of communication even Professor Fotheringgale can't access.” She indicated her own computer, which was busy working on her homework, compiling a list of states along with their most important products. “Or the Web. You can't google Uncle Herkimer.”

“Not anymore,” added N/Ice knowingly. “I think it's a good idea.”

A gleeful Amber jabbed a finger in Simwan's direction. “You're outvoted, brother! We're going to New York, we're going to stay with Uncle Herkimer, and we're going to find the Crub and bring back the Truth so people will realize why they should vote against this stupid development!” Her voice dropped to a more respectful tone. “And so that Mom won't be hurt.”

Any additional concerns Simwan might have wished to express were drowned out by the cheering and yelling of the freshly energized coubet. Besides, it was hard to focus a query on any one of his sisters when all three of them were bouncing from bed to bed while shouting and giving loud voice to their expectations.

Rose started it, delightedly squealing something loud enough to cause her body double to appear in midair. Only, her body double was a perfect replica of the Statue of Liberty—if one discounted the glitzy earrings, tattoos, and noticeably shorter skirt. Amber had chosen to conjure the lights of Broadway, with every one of the plays starring her favorite boyband singers. Detached from theater fronts, the neon, fluorescent, and LED signs spun and bounced around the room in a blinking luminescent ballet of flashing fonts.

N/Ice's contribution to the chaos of expectation (or the expected chaos) consisted of more soberly conjured renditions of the city's other major landmarks: museum fronts, Rockefeller Center, the USN (United Sorceral Nations) building, and especially Central Park with its unique assortment of ambient charms. There was certainly a lot to look forward to besides just catching up with the Crub, Simwan had to admit.

Distractions all, though, he reminded himself firmly. They weren't going on a vacation. They were going after the Truth, something that was difficult enough to find in New York at the best of times, even when it wasn't in the possession of an evil entity like the Crub.

To an outsider it would have looked as if the dinner table was consumed by chaos, but for the Deavys the frenetic rushing to and fro of bowls, platters, pitchers, glasses, dishes, and silverware was perfectly normal. The Grand Table Spell (which Melinda Mae had learned from her mother and which was passed down from one generation of Deavys to the next) kept everything in a constant state of convenient motion. Conversation was facilitated because no one had to ask anyone else to pass this dish or that; the dishes took care of the passing all by themselves, leaving the family members free to talk about other things.

“How did the meeting go today, dear?” an obviously concerned Martin asked his spouse.

As he spooned up salad, molted malted fairy wings adding a nice crunch to the mix, Simwan could tell from the look on his mother's face that it had not gone well. She didn't look so good, either, he thought worriedly. The essence of her was too tied to the Truth, and its absence was starting to affect her health.

“Honestly, Martin, some of these people …” Tight-lipped and visibly worn, she broke off for a moment, shaking her head. “Don't they understand that if they let this project go ahead, not only will we lose the woods, but it will affect the zoning for the entire county? Once the floodgates are opened, they're almost impossible to close again.” She made an effort to pit an innocent olive. “That Mrs. Pendergast—sometimes she makes me so mad I just want to turn her into a toad!”

“Don't be too hard on her, hon.” Martin forked up a small bale of spinach and onion. “After all, her husband's in real estate and they stand to benefit considerably if the development goes ahead. She's only doing what she thinks is best for her family. Besides, you can't expect the Pendergasts or anyone else to understand what's really going on. Not in the absence of Truth.”

“Hmph.” Melinda Mae dug absently at the remnants of her salad. She had taken an unusually small portion, and seemed little interested in that. “I'm beginning to wonder if that particular theft might have been engineered by cronies of the developers, just to further confuse people. The whole business has the smell of the Black Arts about it.”

Simwan looked at Rose, who glanced significantly at Amber, who nodded just once at N/Ice, who rotated in her chair until she was sitting right-side up like the rest of them. But no one said anything. As weary as their mother appeared to be, the last thing they wanted to do was agitate her further.

As dinner progressed, Simwan kept sneaking looks at his sisters. They, in turn, flashed him one restless glance after another. It was clear that no one wanted to be the first to broach the subject of their proposed trip to their parents, because if the initial asker fouled up the request, that individual would never hear the end of it from the others.

Main courses gave way to dessert, which consisted of spiced cream topped with meringue. The quartet of spiders who had agreed to spin the meringue (in return for having the run of the kitchen and all the wandering cockroaches they could catch) took several minutes to top off the frozen cream, at which point they were so exhausted from the effort that Martin had to tenderly carry them back to their home beneath the sink. Tonight's meringue was pistachio, Simwan discovered with one dip of his spoon.

They were running out of time. Something sharp struck him beneath the table and he turned to see Rose glaring at him. The expressions her sisters wore were no less intense. Clearly, they expected him to raise the subject.

Well, he was the oldest. Who should he ask first? Given how exhausted his mom was looking, he decided to query both of them simultaneously.

“You know, it's been kind of boring around here lately.”

“Oh?” His mother's reaction was noncommittal, while Martin, having returned from the kitchen, remained focused on his dessert and his visibly faltering wife. “How so?”

“Well, we're all caught up on our homework, and we—the girls and I—were kind of wondering what we were going to do next week since we're still off from school.”

He plunged onward. “The girls and I, we were thinking of maybe doing something different this year. After all, we're all a lot older now.”

“Yes, dear.” Melinda Mae slowly dabbed a napkin at her spice-stained lips. Her essence might be faded, but there was nothing slow about her wit. “One year older than last year, to be precise.”

“I take it, Simwan, that you and your sisters have something specific in mind?” His father was staring at him. To the average Ord, Martin Deavy came across as a pretty ordinary guy. To someone in the Knowledge, however, he was considerably more. Ords couldn't see the fire in Martin's eyes. Simwan could, all too easily.

He was intimidated, but things had progressed too far for him to back down now. “We, uh, thought we might spend the week in the city.”

“Oh,” Melinda Mae said conversationally, “you want to go over and spend the week with the Clarendon kids in Marksburg? I certainly don't see any problem with that.”

Another sharp pain in his right leg. Throwing Rose a brief, murderous glare, he forced himself to smile as he turned back to his parents again. “Not exactly, Mom. We kind of think it's time we learn a little more about the wider world. You know: museums, life on the street, national monuments—that sort of thing.” He took a breath and plunged ahead. “Actually, we were thinking of spending the week in New York.”

Melinda Mae put down her napkin. She might be suffering from the absence of the Truth, but she was not insensible. “New York? For a week?
By yourselves?
”

“Out of the question,” Martin Deavy murmured quietly and without rancor.

The girls' desperation burst through as Amber took over from her brother. “Please, Dad, Mom! We'll be careful. We know what to do.”

“And what not to do,” a restless Rose added earnestly.

“And how to behave,” Amber added.

“And how not to behave,” N/Ice put in gravely.

“I'm sixteen,” Simwan pointed out quickly. “I'll take care, and watch out for the girls.”

“You'll watch out for
who
?” Rose snapped back at him. “More likely it's us who'll be looking out for you!”

“You're twelve, Rose dear.” An unusually pale Melinda Mae was gentle without being condescending.

“I know,” her daughter agreed, “but we're a coubet. That means we're really thirty-six!”

“Not exactly, sweetheart,” Martin Deavy corrected her patiently. “We don't recognize the math of multiplied expectation at this dinner table. On the other hand, it's true that you're not an Ord twelve, either.”

His wife looked mildly shocked. “
Martin
. You're not actually thinking of letting them do this?”

“Well now, hon, I don't know.” Scanning their pleading, anxious expressions, he smiled fondly at his offspring. “I think it's admirable that they want to experience the big time on their own, and that they believe they can deal with it. I'd rather see them spending time in Times Square, and Times Rhombohedron, and the museums, and Central Park, than sitting in their rooms for a week doing nothing but playing video games and watching TV.” More softly he added, “And it would give you some peace and quiet, a chance to rest until this Truth business can be resolved.”