Calling on Dragons (22 page)

“His own magic bounced back and stunned him,” Morwen translated for Cimorene's benefit. Then she looked past Telemain and stiffened. Behind Telemain and Brandel, the bald, sharp-faced man they had seen in the mirror entered, carrying Scorn at arm's length by the scruff of her neck. He had reason for caution: his hands were covered with scratches. Scorn's eyes were narrowed to slits and she was panting for breath, but she still managed an occasional swipe with a paw. Unfortunately, she wasn't close enough to the bald man to connect.

“Put that cat down immediately,” Morwen said. “You're suffocating her. Adult cats aren't meant to be carried that way.”

“Oh, is it yours?” said the bald man. “You should train it better. It's not very well behaved.”

Trouble bunched himself together and growled. If Telemain and Brandel had not been between him and Scorn's captor, Morwen thought, he would have leapt to the rescue at once.

“You seem to have had some difficulty after all, Vamist,” said Antorell to the bald man. “I did warn you.”

“It was nothing I couldn't handle,” said Vamist.

“Put that cat
down,
” Morwen repeated, sliding her hands into her sleeves in search of something to throw.

“You'd better do it,” Cimorene said. “Hurting one of her cats is the only thing I know of that makes Morwen lose her temper.”

“Morwen!” Vamist's eyes widened, and he brandished Scorn as if she were a banner. “The so-called witch? Then you should thank me for—ow!”

Suddenly, Vamist jumped and flailed his arms in a desperate attempt to keep his balance. Morwen glimpsed a black-and-white blur between his feet. Then Trouble launched himself from the table, ricocheted off Brandel's shoulder, and landed, claws extended, on top of Vamist's bald head. Vamist howled and dropped Scorn, who landed heavily and dragged herself under the table, wheezing audibly. As he grabbed at Trouble, Morwen pulled the collapsible bucket from her sleeve and threw it.

The bucket hit Vamist in the shoulder just as he got a grip on one of Trouble's legs. The impact wasn't heavy enough to do any real damage, but it startled him into losing his hold. Trouble took a final swipe at the back of Vamist's neck and dropped to the floor, where he joined Horatio under a chair.

“You little—” Vamist bent and grabbed at the cats, only to trip over Telemain's conveniently extended foot. He went sprawling, and Telemain smiled slightly.

“You all right, Scorn?” Trouble asked, his voice slightly muffled by the table and chairs.

“I will be in a minute,” Scorn said. She sounded hoarse but angry. “Save some of that creep for me.”

“Grrrow,” said Horatio, and he wound between the chair legs to Scorn's side, where he began washing her neck.

“Nothing you can't handle, eh, Vamist?” said Antorell. “No wonder you needed our help. You did fine as long as all you had to deal with were ordinary townspeople, but you can't handle even one witch's cats.”

“I don't—yowch!” When Vamist looked up to answer Antorell, Horatio had reached out and calmly dug his claws into Vamist's hand. Vamist pulled back out of reach, glared at Horatio, and said, “
Traditional
witches have
one
black cat. These are clearly not proper witches' cats, and there are far too many of them. Had we had the opportunity to discuss it, I would have advised that witch to dispose of these—these mongrels and find a more suitable companion.”

“Is
that
what you called about?” Morwen said. “No wonder the cats were furious!”

“Do you blame us?” said Trouble. “‘Dispose of these mongrels,' indeed!”

“I can see how successful your persuasion would have been,” Antorell said to Vamist.

“There are always those who insist on ignoring the great traditions,” Vamist said with an attempt at dignity. “They are foredoomed to failure.”

“Of course. You're doing this”—Antorell waved at the sword—“out of the goodness of your heart. You don't need us to protect you from the fire-witches, because they're doomed to failure. Right?”

“You're as bad as he is,” Brandel said, scowling at the wizard. He still leaned heavily on Telemain, but his color was improving rapidly and his eyes had lost their glassy look.

For the first time, Antorell took a good look at Brandel. “A fire-witch! How fortunate. My staff can use a little more magic, and yours will do very nicely.” Antorell stepped forward and raised his staff.

Morwen's lips tightened. She was no closer to Antorell than she had been, so she still couldn't make Telemain's melting spell work. Telemain was near enough, but he was very sensibly saving what was left of his magic for the transportation spell that would take them all back to the Enchanted Forest. Brandel didn't know the melting spell, and Cimorene was close enough but couldn't move to point her finger because of Antorell's spell.
Antorell's spell—wizard's magic. Mendanbar's sword automatically counters wizard's magic. The sword . . .

Morwen leaned forward and grabbed the hilt of Mendanbar's sword. It felt as if she had grabbed the hot end of a poker, but she hung on.
Only for a minute, only long enough to swing it,
she thought, and swept the flat of the blade up against Cimorene's arm. A jolt of magic shook her hand loose as the sword absorbed the wizard's spell, and the blade clattered to the table. At exactly the same instant, Antorell's staff exploded.

Everyone ducked, including Cimorene. “Ow! My staff!” yelled Antorell. “This isn't poss—Cimorene!”

Cimorene pointed at him. “Argelfraster. Argelfraster, you nasty little thief.”

Antorell began to melt. “Noooo! Cimorene, this is all your fault. I spent months making that staff! I'll get you for this, I swear I will. If it takes me twenty years, I'll get you. You'll be sorry. You'll be . . .” His voice trailed off into a gurgle. Arona Vamist leaned forward, staring incredulously at Antorell's empty robe and the spreading puddle of brown goo on his floor.

“Well, that takes care of
him,
” Cimorene said with considerable satisfaction. “Who blew up his staff?”

“I think it was Mendanbar's sword,” Morwen said, gesturing.

“No,” said Telemain with utter certainty. “The sword was not responsible. I was observing with great care, and the necessary connections for such a serious shift interference were not present.”

“Then who did it?” Brandel asked.

“I suspect you did.” Telemain let go of Brandel, waited a moment to make sure the fire-witch would not fall over, and then began picking up splinters of Antorell's staff. “At this point, it is only speculation, but a fundamental incompatibility between your magic and that of a wizard would account for the phenomenon very nicely. I will be able to say for certain after I do a few tests.”

“Good,” said Cimorene. “Do them after we get back.” Gingerly, she leaned forward and picked up Mendanbar's sword. Morwen's hand still felt sore and she could not help flinching, but although Cimorene held it with obvious care, the sword did not appear to bother her. “And now that we've got this, we can—”

“Not so fast!” Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist had straightened and edged around the table as Antorell melted. Now he picked up a clay pot filled with dirt from the seat of a nearby chair and held it poised to throw. The angry red scratches that covered his hands and head made him look very fierce. “Put that sword down at once and leave.”

“No,” said Cimorene. “It's my husband's sword, and I'm taking it home. Telemain, how soon can you do that transportation spell?”

“The initial preparations require a mental effort that—” Telemain paused, looked at Cimorene, and then said carefully, “I'll be ready in a minute or two.”

“Thank you,” Cimorene said, smiling. “Then let's—”

“Cimorene, duck!”

Cimorene dodged in response to Morwen's shout, and Arona Vamist's clay pot flew over her left shoulder. For a moment, it looked like a clean miss. Then Cimorene yelled in surprise and clawed at her face with her free hand. Even before Morwen saw the pot dangling from nothing at all down Cimorene's back, she knew.

“It's an invisible dusk-blooming chokevine,” she said. “Stay back, everyone, or it'll grab you, too.”

“I warned you,” Vamist said. “
Now
will you leave?”

“Get that thing off Cimorene.”

“No. Not until you leave.”

“I bet he doesn't know how,” Trouble said.

“He kept it from attacking him when he threw it,” Scorn objected. “He must know
something.
”

“Well, why don't you shove him into it and see what happens?” Trouble emerged from underneath the table and approached Vamist.

“Good idea.” Morwen stalked around the table to join Trouble.

“What's a good idea?” Vamist said, backing away from them along the far side of the table. “You get out of my house, all of you!”

“Aren't you finished yet?” said Killer from the doorway. “I thought this wasn't supposed to take long.”

“What is
that?”
said Vamist, looking wildly over his shoulder.

“Killer!” said Morwen. “Get in here and eat this vine immediately.”

“Isn't that one of those things you say you can't see?” Killer said doubtfully, shoving his way through the partly open double doors. “You said before that they weren't safe. And what if there are side effects?”

“Eat it!” Morwen said. “I'll take care of the side effects later. Hurry up!” Cimorene had kept her grip on the sword and she was still on her feet, but she was beginning to turn blue.

“If you say so.” Killer stretched out his neck and bit at the air in back of Cimorene. The clay pot crashed to the floor and shattered, spewing dirt and shards of clay, while Killer munched thoughtfully. “Not bad. It's much more delicate than I'd expected from the way it smells, though. And I can't quite place the flavor.” He nibbled delicately next to Cimorene's ear.

Cimorene choked, gasped, and began to regain her proper color. Taking two or three deep breaths, she made a series of brushing and pulling motions around her head and shoulders.

“Hey!” said Killer. “You're knocking it all over the floor!”

Cimorene coughed and glared at him. “That's the idea.”

“But it'll get all dusty!”

“You won't have time to worry about that,” Vamist said. “I have other snares in my house for criminals and thieves!”

Dodging between two chairs, he jabbed his thumb against a wooden flower carved into the wall. With a high-pitched screeching of metal against metal, the suit of armor next to the door raised its spear to throw.

“Telemain,” cried Morwen, “get us out of here!”

The suit of armor let fly. Cimorene evaded the missile easily, but Killer was too large to avoid it quickly. As the edges of the room blurred and ran together in the beginning of Telemain's transportation spell, the spear struck the left side of Killer's chest.

“Eeee-augh!”

Killer reared back, wings flapping. As the mist of transportation cleared, he sat down on the air six inches above a clump of violets. The spear fell to the ground below him with a loud thump, flattening a strip of moss.

“Killer!” said Cimorene. “Oh no! Morwen—”

With the back of her mind, Morwen noted that Telemain had managed to transport them all the way back to the Enchanted Forest in one jump, and that for some reason he had brought Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist along. Most of her attention, however, was centered on Killer, who was flopping around in a manner that would have looked exceptionally silly if she had not been so concerned.

“Stop floundering about like that,” Morwen said to the donkey. “I can't do anything to help if I can't get near you.”

“Waugh!” Killer rolled sideways and struggled to his feet. “That was uncomfortable. Am I dead?”

“No such luck,” said Scorn.

Everyone stared at Killer. There was not a mark on him to show where the spear had struck, though they had all seen it hit him. Then Trouble sauntered forward. Reaching up, he batted at Killer's front hooves. His paw went right through them as if there were nothing in the way but air.

“That's a handy trick,” Trouble said. “How'd you do it?”

“Do what?” Killer asked. He looked down in time to see Trouble jump through his right leg. “Eee-augh! I'm a ghost! Oh, help.”

“You can't be a ghost,” Cimorene said. “It's the middle of the day. Ghosts only come out at night.”

“Most of them,” Morwen corrected. “I knew a ghost once who was afraid of the dark, so he always appeared at noon. He had a terrible time scaring anyone. Still, I believe you're right about Killer.”

“If I'm not a ghost, why is that—that
cat
prancing through me like this?” Killer demanded.

“Side effect,” said Morwen. “An extremely opportune side effect, in fact. Eating that invisible dusk-blooming chokevine seems to have made you insubstantial.”

“Shouldn't it have made him invisible?” Brandel asked.

“Not necessarily,” Telemain said. “The pattern of interactivity among the various layers of enchantment affecting Killer is such that the precise effect of additional incidents is not subject to the usual predictive methods.”

“Eeeeee-aaauugh!” Killer's wail of distress was louder and longer than any of his earlier complaints. “If I'm insubstantial, how am I going to
eat?”

“We'll take care of that as soon as we return Mendanbar's sword,” Morwen told him. “Telemain, if you're quite recovered, we should—Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist! Where do you think you're going?”

“Somewhere else,” Vamist said. “You have no right to kidnap me like this.”