“What about sorcerers?”
Scaramouch tore the cloak from around his neck. It was heavy, and too warm, and when he paced it was annoying. “What about the bloody sorcerers?”
Pleasant’s chains jangled slightly as he shrugged. “You don’t really think they’ll just stand back and let this happen, do you? I realise I’ll be dead, so that’s one less you’ll have to worry about, but there are plenty more.”
“There won’t be,” Scaramouch said, stepping back into the shadows for dramatic affect. “When my plan is complete, I will be the only one capable of wielding magic.”
“So you’re going to kill them all?”
“I won’t have to. They will be left as ordinary mortals, while I will be filled with their powers.”
“Ah,” Pleasant said. “OK.”
“Now do you appreciate my vast and superior intelligence?”
Pleasant thought for a moment. “Yes,” he decided.
“Excellent. I’m sorry we can’t talk further, detective, but my Hour of Glory is at hand, and your death will be—”
“One more question.”
Scaramouch’s chin dropped to his chest. “What?” he asked bleakly.
“On the surface, this plot is fine. Drain the magic from others, and then use this magic to become all-powerful and unstoppable and take over the world. I can’t see anything wrong with that plot – in theory. But my question, Scaramouch, is how exactly are you going to achieve all this?”
Scaramouch picked his cloak off the ground, felt through it until he came to the cleverly concealed pocket. From this pocket he withdrew a small wooden box with a metal clasp.
He held the box for Pleasant to see. “Recognise this?”
Pleasant peered closer, examining the etchings in the wood. “Ohhh,” he said, impressed.
“Exactly. This container, enchanted with twenty-three spells from twenty-three mages, is one of the fabled Lost Artifacts. I have spent the last fifteen months tracking it down – and tonight, it is finally mine.”
“So it’s true, then?”
“Of course it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Pleasant’s head jerked up sharply. “You mean you haven’t checked it?”
Scaramouch suddenly felt a little foolish. “I … I don’t have to,” he said. “Everyone knows—”
“Oh, Scaramouch,” Pleasant said, disappointment in his voice.
“I just got it!” Scaramouch said defensively. “Literally, I just got it three hours ago!”
“And you haven’t checked it?”
“I didn’t have time. I had to capture you.”
Pleasant looked back at the box, and his head tilted thoughtfully. “If that is the box from the Lost Artifacts, and it certainly does look like it might be authentic, then it contains an insect with the power to drain magic at a bite.”
“Exactly.”
“Providing that insect is still inside.”
Scaramouch looked at the box. “There are no holes in it.”
“It’s been lost for three hundred years.”
“But the insect’s meant to live forever, right? It doesn’t need food or anything?”
“Well, that’s the legend. Can you hear it? You should be able to hear it buzzing around in there.”
Scaramouch shook the box, and held it up to his ear. “Nothing,” he said.
“Well, it’s a thick box,” Pleasant said. “You probably wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway.”
Scaramouch shook it again, then listened for any buzzing. Even a single buzz. Anything.
“Did you pay much for it?” Pleasant asked.
“The guy who found it, he needed to mount expeditions and things. It wasn’t cheap.”
“How much did he charge?”
“I, uh, I gave him everything I had.”
The detective went quiet.
“But I’m going to be ruler of the world!” Scaramouch explained. “What difference does it make to me?”
“He made an awful lot of money by just handing over a box, without even verifying that it contained what you hope it contains.”
“How will I know?”
“There’s only one way. You have to open it.”
“But the insect will fly away!”
“Let it out near me,” the skeleton suggested. “You’re going to kill me anyway, right? So what do I care if it drains my powers before I die?”
Scaramouch narrowed his eyes. “Why would you make this offer?”
“Because I’m curious. Scaramouch, I’m a detective. I solve mysteries. If my final act in this world is to establish whether or not a mythological insect could still be contained in one of the Lost Artifacts, then that, to me, would be a good death.”
Scaramouch looked at him, and nodded. “OK.”
“Put it on the ground, open it, and stand back. When it’s finished draining me, it’ll be sluggish. That’s when you recapture it.”
Scaramouch nodded. He licked his lips nervously, and placed the box on the floor. He undid the metal clasp, felt his heart pound in his chest, and he opened the lid.
He scampered back into the shadows.
The detective gazed down into the box.
“Well?” Scaramouch asked from the corner.
“Can’t see anything,” Pleasant said. “It’s a little dark … wait.”
“Yes? What?”
And then, the most beautiful sound Scaramouch had ever heard – a buzzing.
“Amazing,” Pleasant said in a whisper.
Something rose from the box, rising into the air after centuries of being trapped. It was unsteady, and weak, but it flew. It lived.
“One little insect,” Pleasant was saying. “The legends say it rose from the carcass of a slain demon. An insect borne of evil, and wickedness, the demon’s last attempt to destroy its enemies.” The insect flew up, dancing in a shaft of light. “One little insect, and it could be responsible for bringing this world to its knees.”
“Wonderful,” Scaramouch breathed.
The insect landed on the ground in front of its box, its prison for all those years. Pleasant looked down at it, then moved slightly and knelt on the insect and squished it.
Scaramouch screamed and the door burst open and Valkyrie Cain stepped into the dungeon.
“What the hell is going on here?” she asked.
Scaramouch charged at her and the girl closed her eyes and flexed her fingers. Her eyes and hand snapped open and the air around her rippled. Scaramouch was hurled back off his feet. He crashed into the far wall, hitting his head and collapsing with a groan. He heard the girl and the detective talking, and he heard the chains being unlocked. Moaning, he turned over and looked up at them.
“It was a trick,” he said. “You really