The Complete Compleat Enchanter (27 page)

At the precise point where the gate began to fade from view, with rocks and trees on the other side of the building showing through it, he stopped and took careful bearings on the nearby landmarks. He chuckled internally over the thought that these invisible castles wouldn’t be practical if the people of Faerie knew a little elementary surveying. Then he wedged the gate open with a small stone and slipped off among the trees.

There he cautiously whistled the tune Belphebe had taught him. No result. He went through it a second time and a third, wondering how long it would be before his absence was noticed. He was just about to give up when he saw a unicorn, apparently the same one Belphebe had ridden, peering from behind a tree. It sniffed suspiciously before coming forward to mouth one of the maple-sugar lumps.

Shea wrote:

DEAREST BELPHEBE:

We are at Busyrane’s castle. It lies about two hours’ ride along the road from the place where we got away from the Da Derga. Looks like a hut till you turn off the road east and follow a track till you get to a big oak tree, the biggest in the neighborhood, in line with a hill that has a round top. Then you can see the castle. Could you arrange to be in the neighborhood in about forty-eight hours? I’ll call the unicorn at that time and if you’re riding it, will see you. Be careful about the magicians, will you?

H.S.

He impaled the note on the unicorn’s horn and shooed the animal away. Now, he thought, if I make a break from the castle, I’ll have a guide. If I don’t, at least I’ll see her again—

That was last night. During the morning, he was more and more nervous and preoccupied, and now for the second time he had wandered from the incantation he and Chalmers were trying to work. “Nothing much,” he had answered Chalmers’ inquiry. Chalmers glanced at him shrewdly and hummed:

“Heighdy! Heighdy!

Misery me, lackadaydee!

He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye!”

Shea looked at his partner sharply, but Chalmers’ expression was bland. How much did he suspect?

But Chalmers was wrapped up in the task. “Now,” he said, “let’s try again. ‘By Fafhir and Python, Midgardsormr and Yang—’ ” the incantation rolled out. The smoke from the fire in the cage thickened, and the amateur enchanters went on, ready to yell the counterspell Chalmers had worked out if the thing got out of hand.

It was a variant on the original dragon spell, with wording and preparations slightly changed. There was a shrill metallic hiss and a minor convulsion in the smoke. The incantation stopped. The incantators stood gaping.

They had produced a dragon all right. One dragon, not a hundred. But this dragon was ten inches long, with batwings and a prominent sting on the end of its tail. It breathed fire.

The bars of the cage had been made strong enough to hold a dragon of conventional size. But this little horror fluttered up to them, squeezed through, and flew straight at the experimenters.

“Yeow!”
yelled Shea, as a blast of flame from its jaws singed the hair off the back of his hand.

“Awk!”
shrieked Chalmers as the sting got him in the ankle. They tumbled over each other and dashed around the laboratory, Shea brandishing his épée and Chalmers swinging a pestle. The dragonlet dodged past them and flew through the door into the corridor. There was a rustle and a heavy clank.

Shea went down the corridor. He came back with his face a trifle white.

“The cockatrice looked at it,” he said, and held out a perfect stone dragon, ten inches long.

“Put it down,” said Chalmers gloomily. He hobbled around, looking for something to put on his stung ankle. “Damnation, Harold, if there were only some way to control these things quantitatively—”

“I thought that was it,” replied Shea. “What went wrong to give us that animated blowtorch?”

“I don’t know. The only . . . uh . . . certitude is that we got our decimal point off again. We got point oh one dragon instead of a hundred dragons. I confess, the solution eludes me. The calculus of classes contains no aspect of quantitative accuracy—”

The rest of the day gave them a sea horse three feet long and, after some effort, a cask to put it in; six stuffed owls with blue glass eyes; and finally a large and amiable tomcat with nine tails. The last experiment found a moon looking in the castle window, so they gave up and went to bed. Chalmers murmured sadly that if he tried to give Florimel a human body in the present state of his knowledge, he’d probably make her into a set of lovely but embarrassing Siamese triplets.

There were noises during the night. Neither slept well till toward morning. When they rose, someone was tapping at their door. It proved to be a long-eared, potbellied imp, who handed them a sheet of parchment, grinned, and sped off down the corridor. Shea and Chalmers read:

“Sounds like a big occasion,” observed Shea. “Let’s go down to the great hall, and see who can we find.”

They found their way to a huge room whose stained-glass windows bore pictures of mystical signs grouped round centerpieces of knights in magical torment. Already five people were gathered at one end, talking earnestly. Shea recognized Busyrane, Dolon, and Duessa. He caught a fragment of a story Dolon was telling:

“—and I say he was no more than a bungling poursuivant, journeyman though he ranked. Imagine summoning up a devil, but leaving one corner of the pentagon open! He deserved no better than he got—ho-ho!—which was to have his head torn off by the demon’s red-hot pincers! Ha, here come my pair! Busyrane, do ’em the honors!”

The archimage bowed, first to Duessa and then to the new arrivals. “We are highly favored,” he said, “to present Master Reed de Chalmers, who has applied for elevation to the honorable state of mastership in our Chapter. He is most expert, most expert, in the production of singular monsters, also a man full of ideas for the benefit of our order. Also his apprentice, Harold de Shea.”

Was there a slight change in the voice on that last sentence? Shea could not be sure, and Duessa was curtsying, pronouncing in a fine contralto: “Enchanted, good magical sirs.” With that red hair she was certainly a beauty when she wanted to be gracious. If only—

Plop!
A bare-necked vulture flopped through the window and lit beside them, then changed into a hook-nosed man in a long monk’s outfit. “The good Fripon!” exclaimed Dolon. “How wags the world with you?”

“By your leave, not well,” croaked the good Fripon, sadly. “I had all but trapped that wretch Belphebe when what does she do but get a counterspell from Cambina, then shoot an arrow through one of the best sprites I ever had. Curse her! She’s killing off the Losels, too.”

“I live for the day when I can tear her toenails out,” said Duessa venomously. Shea’s scalp tingled. A dust whirlwind that puffed in the window set everyone coughing, and dissolved into a short, fat man, who mopped his brow.

“Whew!”
he said. “Fatiguing! Still it’s better than walking for a man of my figure. Hope you have an ample lunch, Busyrane. Always thinking of my belly, that’s me, Voulandoure, at your service. Ah, fair Duessa! And the good Fripon! Still cheating the grave-digger, my gloomy friend?” He poked Fripon’s ribs.

Now magicians began to pour into the hall, by window and door, so many of them Shea could not keep up with their names. The trumpet for the midday meal found him vainly trying to catch up—and also separated him from Chalmers, who was taken in tow to sit at the masters’ table.

Shea found himself next to a fuzzy-haired youth who said shyly: “Pray, generous sir, may I see your enchanted blade?”

“Huh?” said Shea. “But it—” before it occurred to him that no useful purpose would be served by disillusioning these people about the épée. He produced it and handed it over. The fuzzy young man waved it over the table, making noises of approval.

“I feel no sudden access of strength,” he remarked. “The spell must be very subtle. Or perhaps it is one you use on yourself—no, that could not be, for Cambina’s magic prevented the use of such spells at the tournament. Hey, Grimbald!” He reached across and touched the blue-jowled man on Shea’s other side. “He beat two of the most renowned knights of Faerie with this toothpick!”

“Aye,” replied the other, looking up from his plate, “including one of ours.” He addressed Shea directly. “Knew you not that Blandamour and Paridell, though they wear the Faerie livery, are in the service of this Chapter? Nay, you’re not a member—how could you? But ’ware both in the future.”

That explained a lot, thought Shea: the actions of the two knights, for one thing; and for another, why the magicians were so polite to him, though his rating was no more than that of an apprentice. There would be something practically supernatural about modern fencing technique to these people.

###

Busyrane had arranged his hair so that the light falling through the stained-glass window touched it to a halo. He might have been some kindly saint as he began:

“Magical sirs and ladies: many are the pleasures that have fallen to our lot, but none equal to that of beholding you here assembled beneath our humble roof to carry on the good name and high purpose of magic. Ah, how much better and brighter a world it were if all in it could but know you all—could but see you all. My friends—”

The afternoon was warm, the lunch had been ample, and Shea had a feeling of having heard something like this before. His eyelids began to weigh on him. The smooth voice rolled on:

“—in the days of King Huon of glorious and blessed memory, my friends, when we lived a more abundant life—”

Shea felt himself itching, now here, now there, now all over. He made one more effort to keep awake, then lapsed into an unashamed doze. He was aroused by a mild patter of applause. Busyrane’s place was taken by the keeper of ye archives, Courromont, a thin-lipped, bloodless-looking man, who hardly moved his mouth as he read:

“At the council of the Enchanters’ chapter on August 1st following the address of our beloved archimage six members were advanced in grade from apprentice to journeyman and one journeyman member to wit the esteemed Sournoy was advanced to the full rank of master magician it was furthermore decided to raise the annual dues from seven and a half to ten elfars papers were read at the professional session by Masters Magicians Malvigen and Denfero with various works of magical prowess in illustration it was furthermore resolved in the executive session to empower a special committee for drastic action against certain representatives of the Old Order whose activities have become threatening to wit the knight Sir Cambell and Belphebe of the Woods and the Princess Britomart the knights of the Chapter Blandamour and Paridell were accordingly—”

Shea came wide awake, but there were no details. Busyrane merely asked if it were moved and seconded that the minutes be accepted. They were.

Voulandoure’s fat face shone greasily in the heat as he droned off figures and urged members to pay their dues on time. What could those plans for drastic action have been? Presumably the late Malvigen had tried one of them when he got Belphebe’s arrow through him, but what else?

His attention was snapped back by Busyrane’s use of his name: “—proposed that the magicians Reed de Chalmers and Harold de Shea be admitted with the ranks of master magician and apprentice. If these gentlemen will kindly leave the room—”

Outside, Shea said softly: “Did you hear what they said about Belphebe?”

“Dear me, yes. Duessa seems quite determined on that point. She used a most vulgar term in speaking of her—one normally employed in the . . . uh . . . propagation of dogs. When—”

“What are they going to
do?
Specifically?” Shea’s voice was urgent.

“I—” The door opened and a voice called: “Master Reed de Chalmers.”

Shea was left to fidget for five minutes before being summoned. Busyrane grasped him by the hand at the door and led him to the front of the hall. “We present to you the apprentice Harold de Shea as a member of this Chapter,” he said. “A very worthy magical person, adept in the production of strange monsters, adroit in enchantments connected with the profession of arms. Apprentice Harold de Shea”—he turned toward the new member—“as members of a high intellectual calling we despise the silly ceremonies of admission such as the court uses for its orders of knighthood. Therefore, we will merely bid you welcome; but doubtless the other apprentices will have something to say to you tomorrow night after the Black Mass.”

Voulandoure came over and squeezed Shea’s hand in his own thick, moist ones. “My ’gratulations, also, magical sirs!” He lowered his voice. “May I point out the initiation fee—”

“Ahem,” said Chalmers, who had joined the group. “How much?”

“Fifty elfars for yourself, Master Magician Reed, and twenty-five for ’Prentice Harold.”

Chalmers looked slightly stricken. He fished out the money bag. His face showed some relief, but not much, when its contents proved adequate. “I should think,” he remarked, “that with so many fine magicians about, you’d have no difficulty in conjuring up . . . uh . . . all necessary funds.”

A shadow crossed the face of ye keeper of ye moneys. “Alas, magical sir, our great problem! ’Tis a department involving the use of the philosophers’ stone and the blood of infants, this much we know. But our research in the question has been interrupted by the activities of that curst court and the Companions, and I fear me we shall never succeed till we rid ourselves of them.”