Dec 03 2005
Ginger tea hurts. I don’t recommend it.
The Magician, sitting at the table with a book on coin tricks, happened to be looking up when they passed the door. She laid it down and tapped on the tabletop. “My, my.”
The Goon grunted something interrogative. She and Pat were trying to nap on the couches; Pat had taken the blanket, and the Goon had the pillows, one behind her head, the other in her fist in case she needed to throw something.
“Did you see that man with the nasty little mustache? That was Enzi Hant, the Prime Minister of Utsekin. He is an evil dictator.”
Pat looked up with drowsy interest. “Seriously? What’s he done?”
“Assassination of political opponents, sponsoring terrorists in the little republic next door, genocide of tiny peoples whom anthropologists haven’t lived with. Some little chemical weapons projects. The population of Utsekin is under twenty thousand, his talents aren’t exactly stretched. I assumed he was low on everyone’s lists; I wonder why he’d need to come here now?”
Pat asked, “How come you know this shit?”
The Magician smiled and stroked a picture of a coin in her book. “I like to know about little kings. It makes me feel secure.” The Goon pulled the second pillow over her head.