Random Fragments

Masochism, Toby thought to herself, has many forms. For a relatively busy lawyer, already over extended by assisting her firm move and expand to a new world, taking on the challenge that is NaNoWriMo, is one of the more severe of those forms. Much easier - and much less painful - to volunteer to overnight in Thunderhall, teach Constitutional Law at Guantanamo Bay, or wrestle Father Time two throws out of three. Even near-death under the carving knife of the Farmer’s Wife was beginning to seem retrospectively rosy in comparison.

Granted that NaNoWriMo appears much more civilized - simple even - before one begins. After all, how can it be that difficult to write 50,000 words in 30 days. That’s only 1,666.66 words per day. National Novel Writing Month doesn’t demand that those words be particularly brilliant, in fact they do not even have to be coherent, unless, that is, the writer has a muse who demands such. Unfortunately for Toby, grandfather After was a muse far more prone to demanding high standards than actually informing how to meet them. He would just point out that when he was a wyrmling, young dragons were expected to compose three thousand words per day — in perfect sonnet form — while simultaneously holding down challenging positions in their family firms, completing post doctorate research on new planes in the multiverse, and holding down positions as lead soloists in the local chamber orchestra.

No sympathy available there at all.

***

I sighed deeply, puffing ash across the scattered parchment covering my desk. One hundred and sixty six words down, only a decimal place stood between me and some much needed sleep on my slowly growing hoard. That decimal place, however, was as intractable as the heart of a Judge. I should know, both grandfather Paykenym After (deceased, but that hasn’t stopped him), and my father Duncrief After - usually referred to as The Old One - are Judges. Dropping NaNoWriMo on my desk was one of grandfather After’s ideas.

He drifted into one of the firm’s morning meetings, with a suggestion for the partners. “Let the young pup learn to write something other than factums and memoranda. She’ll need it when she’s appointed to the bench. Besides, it’s about time an After wrote an autobiography - we’ve skipped a couple of generations, someone needs to keep up with the long memories.”

I didn't say “No.” to After. In fact, at Happy, Ever & After, despite being the After of the current partnership, I don’t have much chance to say “No” to anyone.

Happy’s grunt made it clear that the idea of writing anything for which the firm couldn’t bill was a frivolity of which she could not approve. Then again, rumour has it that Happy left Seven Dwarves Inc. because, despite all of the “hi ho”ing, the rest of the board members just weren’t serious enough about the bottom line.

Ever just looked thoughtful. That’s dangerous with him. Thoughtful elves write epic poetry or decide that it’s time for bow practise to create a new epic event about which to write. Neither of these processes is fun to be around. Especially if you don't want to be volunteered to be the one flying by carrying the target.

Unfortunately After could trump their posturing. He had merely to grin one of those grins that careless folk might describe as skeletal - he is, after all, skeletal - but which somehow manages to show each tooth in greater glistening clarity. Neither Happy nor Ever is properly scared of dragons, us living dragons that is. Dead dragon still walking, makes even them uneasy. As After once explained to me, “I’ve died, and gained by the experience. Dying again will only annoy me... And no one wants to annoy me.”

Of course, once The After left, Happy and Ever made sure I understood that billable hours would remain the Firm's priority. Biographical exercises might make After happy, but they would not add to the firm's coffers, and that meant that the firm would not add to my hoard. The partners will not tolerate any drop in the amount of time I spent with clients.

***

Strangely enough, no matter where she went in the multiverse, Toby found that matters pertaining to real estate had a habit of involving more red tape (or the local equivalent) than a dragon could flame ... even on a full stomach and several casks of the best Brandyburg Bitter.

Sealohkant was a prime example of a realm where transferring ownership of a piece of property had gradually become almost impossible due to the rampant expansion of bureaucratic rules. HEA's client had called on the firm to determine whether part of the problem was that Sealo lawyers had developed a strange ability to digest red tape and were well on their way to creating an ecosystem independent of their actual clients.

A slight glitch in the translation of the letter asking for the firm's assistance had changed "red tape" to "red tapeworm", making the trip to Sealohkant an obvious one to assign to Toby.

At first the relief she felt on discovering that she did not need to deal with red tapeworms inspired Toby to think that the retainer could be an easier than usual jaunt. Then she discovered that, merely to go to Sealohkant required a completing seventeen volumes of forms, in quadrupicate. No one could explain to her, the process of obtaining proper documentation to be permitted to practise law in the jurisdiction. There were rules, but to date, all applicants had died of old age long before completing the process and no-one at the local Law Society was willing to admit to knowing the final forms.

The client, having more money than time, accepted Toby's suggestion that HEA could subcontract through a local firm. Toby would inspire the locals with the fear of god ... or at least the fear of dragon breath ... and do her best to ensure that the transaction be completed within a reasonable time. Picking a firm and providing the appropriate inspiration was quite easy. Unfortunately moving the transaction along required opposing counsel to co-operate ... and they weren't subject to the same encouragement.

Despite what seemed to Toby like months of appendage dragging, the client was quite pleased with the final closing schedule. Toby oversaw the preparation of each document, intent on preventing any last minute delays caused by misplaced commas, or insufficient sealing wax. No detail, no matter how finicky, was left with leeway to go wrong. That, at least, was the plan.

The day before closing, opposing counsel mentioned a small matter of property taxes — unpaid — that Toby's client had offered to pay. Consultation with the client quickly degenerated into histrionics of absurd proportions as the client described in vivid detail each and every conversation with the buyer, and how the buyer had promised payment towards innumerable items only to reneg. The client's bottom line was timing, with costs running a close second. Messengers undulated from office to office carrying ever more intense suggestions for completing the sale.

Finally Toby took matters into her own claws and began airlifting documents between the parties. After several trips worth of exasperation, and the incidental incineration of several innocent topiaries, documents started moving more quickly, and no new objections were raised. By the end of the closing day, a triumphant Toby shepherded several carts full of bank records, contracts and bankers drafts into the the deposit house the parties had selected.

Toby left the deposit house wondering whether, in the long run, she might not have preferred to deal with red tapeworms. At least the worms would only have been out for blood, instead of the brain cells that the red tape seemed to thrive on eating. The whole body shudder that followed that mental image set off several twinges, a couple of aches, and and incipient cramp. All of which convinced Toby that a leisurly flight back to the client's offices would be most appropriate. Indeed, the circumstances almost demanded an airborn victory romp, and, on due consideration, Toby could not see herself denying the circumstances their due.

Even with her ebulliance at the recent victory reined in to avoid causing consternation among her Sealo hosts, Toby managed to fit a refreshing number of gambols, barrel rolls and airy pirouettes into the trip.

***

In a Galaxy Far Far Away

The knife flashed, reflecting the light of the twin suns of Zeteroth. Moving slower then faster, it struck and sliced through the objects in its path. Steel columns slithered to the ground in abstract slices: some neatly split in two, others minced to fragments in the time it took Zeteroth's feeble gravity to claim them. The knife moved on to stone, slicing granite and obsidian as though they were soapstone, then faceting a titanic diamond studded pipe into fanciful filigree.

The blade paused, seeking fresh targets, then began to slice and dice a scattering of artificial substances littering a nearby marble work surface. Adamantium slabs, ceramic, blocks, plastics and sophisticated aglomerations of nanoparticles — intelligent races' best attempts at impervious substance — all severed by the passage of the knife. Organics fared no better: tooth, bone, or claw; branch, shell or scale; all surrendered their integrity before the onslaught of cutting power.

Finally the knife stilled. Stillness descended over the ravaged remains. A door irised open on Zeteroth's surface, and several humanoids in airtight, superclean costumes emerged to start collecting the various shards and remnants. None of them touched the knife where it hung, unsupported, in mid air. Finally, their task completed, the technicians regrouped on the surface of the door, and were drawn back down to the airlock that had earlier disgorged them.

Silence descended on the deserted plateau. For a minute, perhaps two, not even the dust motes — usually restless under the prodding of the remnants of Zeteroth's thin atmosphere — dared break the stillness around the knife.

Then tempered movement brought edges to the trompe-l'oeil immobility that had masked a woman's figure, rendering her, suddenly, apart from the boulders she had blended with. The woman walked over to the hovering knife, then reached out and grasped it. The woman examined the blade, seeing it unreasonably, but apparently expectedly, pristine despite its earlier work. With a shadow of a smile, she knelt and then drew the knife gently across one forearm. Holding her arm so that oil-black blood dripped and pooled on the blade of the knife, she whispered, "The first, had no name, and it failed me. You, the second, I will call Toby's Bane. We will not fail again."

She stood and sheathed the newly named weapon then walked over to the airlock's surface. As she stood and waited for the gate to open, she watched incuriously as the wound on her arm knitted closed, leaving a thin white line.