Crom and Oliver Cunninghill sat in a large, beautifully decorated room, at an impressively large granite table, mottled in brown and pink, with flecks of mica. The table had deep channels cut into it in intricate shapes, and looked like the sort of obelisk on which one might perform a human sacrifice. The two men were sipping peat brown glasses of 20 year-old Laphroaig whiskey.
Sitting opposite them was an older man in a brown suit. His right hand showed the hint of an unintelligible tattoo under his suit cuffs. He had a friendly, grandfatherly face, and before him on the granite slab were notes, maps, books, and an e-tablet.
"Fascinating!" The old man said enthusiastically. "A defunct Russian spy satellite! And none of your men, nor you, pictured that sort of thing happening, I take it?"
They both shook their heads. Crom said "Naw, I pictured a lorry full 'a petrol bearin' down on 'im. Explodin' in right ball a' flame n' carnage."
Oliver added "yeah, 'n I thought 'a his shit stain of a tent burnin' to cinders, wit him inside, 'course."
The old man nodded while shuffling through his notes to find a map. "Intriguing. Well, we found the tracking telemetry for that satellite. Not an easy thing to do, mind you. The Russians prefer to keep their secrets. And the really fascinating thing is; it should have landed 70 miles out to sea, off the coast of Madagascar, two months from now. The orbit began to deviate, it appears, at the precise moment the curse was uttered! The orbit decayed, quite unexpectedly, to intercept your poor friend hundreds of miles away and weeks in the future. I've never been privy to such a clear example of a change in one's Wyrd." The look on the old man's face was one of wonderment and excitement. Then, he looked up from the map and addressed Oliver, "were you able to obtain the coroner's report?"
"Aye, 'tis there with the other notes. 'E died hungry an' in bloody flames, just as we planned. 'Is mum, too."
The old man looked satisfied. "Excellent work, boys, although I don't remember agreeing to allow you to murder an old maid. I should suppose she was included in the voicing?" He raised his brow, and Crom and Oliver shifted uncomfortably in their seats, looking slightly guilty. Crom nodded slowly. "I suppose perhaps you are further along than we anticipated." He smiled. "Although for your hatred for this young man to include the murder of his mother... good lord, Crom, remind me not to cross you." Crom smiled at the backhanded compliment, showing his missing tooth as black against crooked yellow.
"Now, I've arranged for your payments to be wired direct to the accounts you've given me. I expect, as always, the utmost discretion from you in this matter. You know the value of this project, so you must know, like before, that you are not allowed to use the Alvanic chant without our prior approval."
Crom and Oliver both looked disappointed by this, and Crom opened his mouth to protest. The old man stopped him with a gesture, stood up and began pacing the room, then continued, "I would ask that you return the sheet with the chant itself, that it might be destroyed. But, you know by now that the sheet and the technical description are not important, it is the strength of your will that brings forth a curse. You need only mean it, truly and deeply, and the words will freely come. Your aptitude with the other curses suggests you already know this, and your viciousness with Mr. McAlerod and his mother suggests your willingness to use it again."
He paused here and leaned on his chair. "You must control your anger. You are free to use conventional methods to settle any disputes, but as we recently found, people have begun to take notice, and we can't have more mistakes like Ivan." He put his hands on the table, and looked at the men with all seriousness, "You know what happened there. Ivan was sloppy, he let his anger get to him, and he knew the curse to use. And as a result, we had to eliminate Ivan. I think, in hindsight, that too was sloppy, but a necessity none-the-less. Not on your part, mind you, you boys did just as you were told, I simply think the council failed to anticipate the... unintended consequences. Bloody cameras and witnesses and press. Bad news for covert investigations such as this."
"I like you boys, and your father, but as you know, if you muck this up, we will be forced to kill you." He said this with a matter-of-fact look on his face. The Cunninghill boys believed him wholeheartedly. Crom pulled out the piece of paper and tossed it, dejectedly, on the table.
The old man sat back down, smiled gently and said "Well, then, unless there is other business, I bid you boys farewell."
Crom stood up, but Oliver remained seated. Oliver said "Yah, one more ting, professa'. Why did ya 'ave us record it when ya know it ain't nutin' but static?"
"Well, Oliver, excellent question." He intertwined his fingers, sat up straight, and took on his educator pose. "This has been a source of consternation for us. There is no good reason to expect that we will hear anything but static. The druid would likely have an accurate idea, but she is no longer part of the council of Eulinga, and would not help us if she could. Philosophically, we have no idea why we can write it and speak it, but not record it. We suspect there may be some fundamental truth that says reality is not reproducible after the fact, our studies on the nature of the Wyrd may suggest that, although the potency of written words and runes confounds that idea. Or it may simply be that it is not reproducible digitally."
Oliver sat for a moment. "well, 'den, why don't ya try analog? Ya know, cassette tapes an' such?"
The professor was taken aback. He thought to himself, how could this idiot have thought of that, and we didn't? The Council cannot know, and must not find out if he's right. He smiled at Oliver and said "good question, young man. Let's keep that between us for the time being." He winked generously at Oliver, and the meeting was over.
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