The Wizardry Consulted (Wiz, #4)(24)

“Well, how do you know a dragon didn’t steal it?” the woman demanded. “It was gold after all.”

“It was gilded pot metal,” Widder Hackett amended.

“Yes, but . . .”

“Oh woe!” Mrs. Grimmen declaimed. “Oh sorrow! Oh alack!”

“Oh tell the ninny to look in the flour barrel,” Widder Hackett said.

“That’s usually where she’s hidden it when she can’t find it.”

“Uh, have you looked in the flour barrel?”

Mrs. Grimmen stopped in mid-wail. “Why would I do a silly thing like that?”

“Well, maybe that’s where you left the bracelet.”

The woman looked at him like he was crazy. “I didn’t leave it anywhere. It was stolen from me. Oh woe! Oh woe!”

“Look, just go home and look in the flour barrel, okay?”

“But it’s stolen away, my treasure. Oh woe! Oh woe!”

“Right,” said Wiz, taking her by the elbow and gently guiding her toward the door.

“Sheesh! What next?” Wiz muttered as he turned away from the door.

“Chickens, most likely,” said Widder Hackett in his ear. Wiz looked out the door and saw a man coming down the street with a live chicken in each hand.

He was scrawny and balding, with a big sharp nose and a receding chin. The way he strutted along with his head thrust forward put Wiz in mind of a chicken as well. Needless to say he stopped at Wiz’s front door.

“I’m here to see the wizard,” the man announced.

“I’m the wizard,” Wiz admitted.

“Kinda young ain’t you?”

“I was fast tracked in wizard school. Look, I’m kind of busy right now, so if you don’t mind . . .”

“Not so fast, Wizard. I’ve got a job for you.”

“I’ve already got a job.”

Ignoring that the man thrust the chickens in Wiz’s face. “Just look at them.”

Since the birds were about level with Wiz’s nose there wasn’t any way to avoid it. From the way they struggled and cackled the chickens weren’t any happier about the situation than he was. Aside from that they looked just fine. Of course, Wiz admitted, the only thing he knew about chickens was they came in three kinds: Regular, extra-crispy and spicy Cajun style-plus kung pao if you ordered Chinese.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Well, look at them! They don’t lay hardly any eggs and no matter how much I feed them they stay scrawny.”

Wiz looked over his shoulder into empty air.

“Don’t ask me,” Widder Hackett grated. “The old fool’s been to every witch and magician for miles around. No one knows what’s wrong with those stupid chickens.”

“To be honest,” Wiz said, “I don’t know that this is my kind of problem.

I’m really here as a dragon specialist.”

“You’re the municipal wizard ain’t you?” he demanded.

“Actually,” Wiz began, “I’m a consultant.”

“Wizard, consultant, what’s the difference? Point is you’re paid out of my taxes to solve our problems. Well, this here,” he said, thrusting the protesting chickens forward, “is my problem. So earn your money and solve it!”

“Those aren’t dragons,” Wiz pointed out.

“Any fool can see that, Mr. Wizard.”

“Well, since they’re not dragons they are not my problem. I only deal with dragons. Goodbye.” Before his visitor could say another word, Wiz put all his weight against the door and forced it closed. Outside, the man made a couple of loud remarks about “uppity employees” and then the sound of his footsteps and the cackling of his chickens receded in the distance.

“Good grief,” Wiz muttered weakly.

“Better get used to it,” Widder Hackett told him. “There’s going to be lots more of them. Word gets around you’re a wizard working for the council and you’ll have every lamebrain who thinks he’s got a problem camped out on your doorstep demanding you solve it.” She snorted. “And there’s lots of lamebrains in this town, I can tell you that.”

“But how am I supposed to get any work done if I’m constantly being interrupted by people with lost bracelets and sick chickens?”

“That’s nothing. Wait until the love-sick ones start coming to you. Rattle on for hours, they will, and not a word of sense to be found in any of it.”

The way she said it left Wiz with a sinking feeling she was speaking from experience.

There was a knock at the door. Wiz whirled and jerked it open.

“I told you I can’t do anything about your damned . . . chickens,” he finished weakly.

There was an angel on the doorstep. An angel in a drab brown dress.

“I beg your pardon, My Lord,” the angel said in an angelic but timid voice. “I, I heard you are looking for a housekeeper.”

Wiz realized his angel was actually a girl, perhaps eighteen years old. The plain brown homespun dress concealed a trim figure. Her skin was creamy white with just the right touches of pink. A fringe of wheat-gold curls peeked out from her bonnet. Her eyes were wide and blue as Wedgewood saucers.

Wiz finally managed to get the circuit from his brain to his mouth working again and closed his jaw. “Uh, well, yes,” he said. “What’s your name?”