Thus, he found the door that had to be Maeve's (or so he guessed by the clanking and puttering from the other side). There was a transom open at the top, in a vain attempt to let some air flow through the building. Nimble, even with as much drink as he'd had, he had little trouble squirreling himself up the flimsy jamb. His tiny hands and feet found holds no human could ever have hoped to use, and in a mere moment, the brownie was carefully wedged in the gap between the door and the splintery boards of the ceiling.

Oblivious to the dark, bright eyes watching her, Maeve was already about her work. The old scroll she had was faded and grease-stained-she vaguely recollected wrapping a roasted hen in it one night-and she could only hope the instructions and the words were still legible. It wasn't like the scrolls she was used to, where all that was needed was to utter the twisted words on the page. This one required procedures and processes to bring it to fruition. Deciphering the parchment as best she could, the wizard set out the powders, the candles, and all the paraphernalia needed to cast the summoning.

To the process, Maeve added a bottle of wine, setting it prominently on a table in the center of the pattern. She wanted a special familiar, by damn, not just any frog or rat, and figured, in her own way, that a little extra enticement to the spell couldn't possibly hurt. She added another bottle, too, just for herself, a strengthening tonic for what she was certain would be an arduous process. The cork already pulled, she sampled heavily as the work went on and mumbled under her breath a running monologue of grievances and revenge.

From his post, Shank quickly got over his first dose of surprise. When he'd scampered up the jamb, he'd imagined what lay on the other side. This was not it. The old woman was certainly not making preparations for any lover's rendezvous, any easy material for blackmail. He'd had it all figured-she was some wealthy crone meeting her gentleman. (By his logic, she had to be wealthy, since she wasn't going to gain suitors by her looks.) He'd hoped to spy, learn some names, and turn the whole day into a nice profit.

Unfortunately, she clearly wasn't making arrangements for a tryst. She was preparing to do magic. Although disappointed that his ambitions were scotched, Shank watched with fascination. Whatever she was doing, she didn't want people knowing, so that still meant the possibility of profit for little Will o' Horse-Shank. She might be casting a curse on someone-that could bring him money. If she were a vile priestess plotting evil or a treasonous wizard, there might be reward for turning her in. Folks said King Pinch could be a generous man when it suited him. Of course, she might be one of them wild mages about to try something risky. Shank didn't feel so comfortable about that prospect. As a brownie, though, one of the things Shank had to be thankful for was an innate understanding of the mystical world. As he watched, he slowly gathered the clues he needed to see what she was about: the summoning of a familiar.

Ah, yes. The brownie's cunning little mind hatched a perfectly suitable plot. Suddenly he saw for himself a life of ease-wine, breads, new clothes and cheese, things he so dearly loved. He watched her go through the twists and turns, light the candles, and utter the words. He waited and poised himself for the right moment. If she wanted a familiar, by the gods, he'd make sure she got one.

Maeve swallowed another gulp of wine and pressed on with the reading of the scroll. The damned spell was tortuously hard, more complicated and twisted than it looked at the start. She forced her way through a few more syllables and arcane passes before reaching again for the wine to strengthen herself. She was almost done and was pretty sure she'd gotten it right. It was so hard to tell with these things, especially with it being so early in the morning and all.

Finally, she spoke the last syllables, and just in time, too, for her candles were almost burnt to nubs and her wine was nearly gone. She was sweaty from the effort even though the room was not particularly hot. As the last echoes rang out, Maeve stood back and waited.

Nothing happened.

There was no puff of smoke, no creature appearing out of thin air. Instead, she stood alone in the center of a dingy room, at the heart of a badly drawn chalk outline- circles had never been her strength-listening to a burst of boisterous singing from downstairs and waiting for something, anything, to happen.

All at once, there was a scrabbling thump and clump behind her, and Maeve whirled to face the door. There, at the edge of the circle, stood a little man with pointed ears and a pointy chin, improbably dressed in tattered children's clothes. With a flamboyant wave and a grand bow, the brownie-for it was a brownie much to Maeve's great joy-grandly announced, "The Mighty Will o' Horse-Shank, familiar to your arcane majesty, stands at your service!"

Maeve beamed with joy. The spell had worked!

The old torn was quiet, resigned to its fate. Now was the time, Fiddlenose knew, to start the next step of his plan. Rousing from his seat, he pushed aside the brush that hid the stink-plant sac he'd carefully gathered. Now he'd teach that torn to ruin his nights.

As he gathered the gelatinous pod, the air around him began to strangely hum. It was quiet and soft, but the old torn heard it too and began to yowl once more, though this time its voice was filled with fear. Something was happening, something that made Fiddlenose's skin itch. Worse still, he was suddenly keen on a strange urge-an urge to be with someone, someone far away and calling to him.

The hot air closed around him, thickening like bad porridge. The hum grew louder until it drowned out even the tomcat's shrill howls. As the entire world started to fade on Fiddlenose, the brownie, furious and confused, could only helplessly wonder, why do I want to serve someone I don't even know?

And then everything faded to nothing.

"Cheese. I'd really like some cheese," her familiar loudly announced from his chair. His little feet dangled well above the floor, and he could barely reach the side table, but that didn't stop him from pouring himself another glass of palace wine. "Good cheese, not that mold old Car-I mean, not plain, ordinary human cheese. We familiars have delicate dispositions. I'm sure you wouldn't want to indispose your familiar, now would you, dear Maeve? I honestly believe that with a peck of cheese, I shall feel right again and be ready to do your bidding."

Maeve sighed. Somehow, this was just not working out as she'd thought it would. The way she understood it, a familiar was supposed to be at,your beck and call, but since Will had arrived he'd demanded wine, roast meat, the promise of new clothes, even gifts to the innkeeper in his name-and all before he could (and she could quote) 'Feel truly restored and ready to do her will.'

"I think you should be rested enough," she argued testily. "You're my familiar. I'd like you to demonstrate your powers."

Shank knew from her tone that he could not put off the question any longer. The only problem was he hadn't a clue what sort of powers he was supposed to have or grant to her-even if he could.

"Powers? Such as?" he stalled.

Maeve screwed up her face, not expecting the question. She didn't know; she'd never had a familiar before. She racked her drink-fuddled memory for what little she knew on the whole subject.

"You should be able to hear my thoughts-obey my commands. That's one."

"Oh, that," Shank drawled as he tried to think of an explanation. "Well, that takes time. Uh-huh, that's it. We just met, and I'm very, very tense, so my mind is resisting your thoughts. I'm sure it will get better, especially if you've got any more of this wine." He poked at the now-empty bottle on the table and looked around the room significantly. "I'm sure it would help immensely."