The Complete Compleat Enchanter (28 page)

“Aye,” said Dolon. “The one who came nearest the solution was the enchantress Acrasia. She did make a conjured gold that was all but permanent; met every test, and would only turn to ashes when one pronounced a Pater Noster. But where’s Acrasia now? Eh? Dead, down and drowned by one of Gloriana’s Companions, a murrain on them all!”

“Good Master Dolon!” It was Busyrane. “The professional meeting is called, and I doubt not the other masters are as eager as we ourselves to hear your paper.”

Shea found the fuzzy-haired youth at his elbow. “D’you play at checks? We ’prentices are left much to our own devisings when the masters gabble.”

“Checks?”

“Aye, you know, king, queen, knight, fool, pawn, check and you’re mate. I’m hand in glove with one of Busyrane’s imps, who’ll furnish us a mug or two of musty ale to pass the time while we play.”

It sounded an attractive program. But Shea remembered that chess game afterward. The fuzzy-haired apprentice was not naturally a good player. Shea beat him in the first two games easily, winning the small bets the youth insisted on “to make the sport more interesting.” Then the musty ale or the youth’s magic—too late Shea remembered what profession he was an apprentice in—rose up and bit him. The fuzzy one’s pieces turned up in the most unexpected places, executing the most astonishing gambits and combinations. With every new defeat Shea grew more annoyed. Whether through annoyance or the musty ale, he began offering to double the bets for the next one.

When the doors at the end of the hall were flung open and the master magicians emerged, the fuzzy youth was remarking gaily: “That makes eighty-six elfars, sixteen you stand in my debt. Ha-ha, that reminds me. Did I ever tell you about the journeyman Sligon, who owed my master, Voulandoure, sixty elfars over a box of dice? He refused to pay—said he couldn’t—even when Voulandoure sent him a plague of boils. Well, wasn’t it funny, when Sligon was playing with his own cat one day, that he should turn into a fish? I say a good magician should never lack for money, when there are people who can be kidnapped and ransomed. Don’t you agree?”

“That’s right,” said Shea with a heartiness which he hoped didn’t sound too hollow. He got up to join Chalmers.

The elder psychologist was looking pleased with himself. “A trifle harrowing that session, but gratifyingly informative,” he said as they went toward their rooms. “I really feel I’ve learned something about quantitative control. In fact, I’m confident that in a few months’ research I can learn enough not only to transform Florimel and to rejuvenate myself, but also to . . . uh . . . revolutionize the entire practice of magic in Faerie, to make its benefits available to all.”

“Yes, but”—Shea looked worried—“did you find out what they intend to do about Belphebe?”

“I gather that that is a matter for the . . . uh . . . executive session of tomorrow. But as I understand the outlines of the plan, it is not to direct the enchantments against her in person. She’s protected against them. They intend rather to place spells on the two or three places where she sleeps, with the design of causing her to fall into so deep a slumber that she can be captured.”

They paused on Chalmers’ threshold. He added: “However, I wouldn’t worry about the young woman’s . . . uh . . .
safety,
Harold. As I understand it she is to be brought here, and I am sure that as a member of the Chapter I can persuade them not to harm her. In fact—”

“For the love of Mike, Doc, are you throwing in with these guys, or just plain daffy? Didn’t you hear Duessa talking about pulling Belphebe’s toenails out, come the Revolution, and Dolon mentioning the torture chamber? Wake up! You’re being an old fool!”

“Harold, I must request you not to use such intemperate language. After all, I’m somewhat your senior, and I require the uninterrupted use of all facilities as well as your own cordial cooperation to put this matter on a scientific basis, in a few months I shall be in a position to effect an industrial revolution in magic—”

“Theory! Months! I might have known that’s what you’d be after! Can’t you realize somebody’s in danger?”

“I shall certainly give my most earnest attention to persuading the other members of the Chapter that this young woman to whom you are so attached is innocuous, and—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Forget it! Good night.” Shea stalked out, more angry with Chalmers than he had ever been before. He did not hear the velvety click of the Judas window in Chalmers’ room. Nor could he overhear the two men in the secret passage that led to that window.

Busyrane’s voice was bland. “We were good enough to warn you that the young man was a suspicious character and mingled somehow in the affairs of the court.”

“Can it be that my judgment, usually so keen, was altogether thrown off?” asked Dolon.

“Oh, you were right about the older. He’s a proper magician and devoted to the Chapter. But the younger—he’ll bear more than watching. A friend of Belphebe, forsooth!”

Nine

Shea lay in bed, staring at the black ceiling. No use trying to get the Doc to do anything. His heart was in the right place. But between his devotion to Florimel and his devotion to theory he could not be convinced that these enchanters, who talked so glibly of intellectual achievements, were bloody-minded racketeers who intended to put Belphebe, Britomart, and a lot of others to a slow and intricate death.

Shea shuddered as he thought of it. Whatever was done to save them, he would have to do, quickly. Yes, and to keep Chalmers from turning the products of his really fine scientific mind over to these rascals.

The castle was silent. He slipped out of bed, dressed, and buckled the faithful épée over his shoulder. It would not be much use against enchantments. But as long as the enchanters themselves believed it had magic power, it would help.

The door swung open noiselessly. There was no light in the corridor. The stone floor was cold under Shea’s feet. His soft leather boots made soundless progress. If he kept one hand along the wall, he thought he could find the way to the great hall, and so out. Step—step—the hand that had been following the wall touched nothingness. An appalling odor of cockatrice assailed his nostrils. Evidently the door of somebody’s laboratory was open. He went down to hands and knees and slithered past an inch at a time, hoping the creature would not wake up.

So. Here was the head of the stair. He took one step down, two—and felt something soft touch his ankles. Another step and the something soft was clear to his waist, catching at him. It felt ropy and vaguely slimy, a whole tangle of slime—cobwebs! For a moment Harold Shea felt unreasoning panic, as it seemed that going ahead and turning back would be equally fatal. Then he realized that this would be some of Busyrane’s magic, part of the ordinary castle safeguards, and of no special significance.

Yet what would cut through or destroy cobwebs? Fire. He had no fire. But in his previous adventure in Scandinavian myth, Surt’s giants had made use of flaming swords, and he had the épée. With an incantation to make use of the law of similarity it might become a flaming sword. On that narrow, stone-walled spiral staircase it was altogether unlikely that anyone would be able to see the light.

With the ghostly fingers of the cobwebs clutching at his legs, Shea stood on the stair and thought as he never had before of a spell:

“Sword, sword, sword that is now my salvation,

Make me a light to cut through these cobwebs;

Be like Surt’s sword to cut through this maze.”

He could feel the hilt growing warm.

“Help my escape to reach consummation;

In the name of Durandal, help me to be free.”

It was not outrageously good poetry, but the hilt was so hot that he snatched it out. A smoky red flame ran down the blade and dropped from the point, revealing the whole stairwell from wall to wall and as high as Shea stood, filled with a solid mass of the hideous gray material. A man could smother in it easier than not. Busyrane left nothing to chance.

Shea slashed at the stuff with the flaming épée. It shriveled left and right before him, back against the wall with hissing, foul-smelling flames running along the strands. He advanced slowly, cutting one step at a time. As he reached the bottom and the last cobwebs, the fire in the blade went out. He was in the great hall; but a few steps carried him through it, across the forecourt and to the gate.

A moon looked down out of a cloudless sky. Shea cursed it softly to himself, wondering whether he ought to take a chance on crossing the open stretch between gate and the shelter of the trees before it set. He decided to try it.

Bending low, he scuttled rapidly across the space, his cloak flapping like a vampire’s wings. He made it without stumbling and looked back. The castle had disappeared. There was nothing visible but stony ground with the hut in the middle.

Once among the trees, he began pacing the circuit of the clearing, whistling very softly to himself the unicorn tune and pausing to listen. A quarter of the way round he was halted by a tense whisper, “Stand, sir!”

“Belphebe!”

“Aye.” She stepped from her place of concealment, arrow drawn to the head. “In good sooth you look like Harold de Shea. But show me how you hold that narrow sword.”

Shea drew the still-warm épée and demonstrated.

“Certes, then you are indeed he. I feared lest the enchanters had sent a phantom forth to beguile me. Right glad I am to see you, Squire Harold.”

Shea said: “Say, I’m glad to see you, too. I knew I could depend—”

“Save your fair speeches for another hour. Here is danger. What is toward?”

Shea explained. Belphebe said: “For myself I fear not, though I thank you for the warning. Yet it’s somewhat otherwise with Britomart, who has not the protection of the woods so close as I. And sure it were shame to miss the chance of catching the entire Chapter at once. Let me think. I left Artegall at a woodcutter’s cot on the far flank of Loselwood. His man Talus had gone to fetch Cambina, that she might heal his bruises and calm his mind.”

“So Cambina’s a psychologist too! Why does he need his mind calmed?”

“Why, sir, he’s the chief justiciar of all Faerie. Without a calm mind, how shall he hold the balance even? Let us go thither and lay this matter before him. Certes, we two cannot lay so many rogues by the heels alone.”

Two hours of walking brought Shea to the yawning stage. The moon had set. Under the black trees, even the sure-footed Belphebe found the going hard. She was ready to listen to suggestions for a nap.

“Sleep is still far from me now,” she said. “If you wish, I will keep watch for the first hour—which should be till the stars of the Bear sink to the top of that tree.” She pointed. Shea, too drowsy to notice, composed himself to rest.

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake in a brightening world.

“Hey, young lady,” he said through his first yawn. “I thought you were going to wake me up after the first hour?”

“And so thought I. But you were so in comfort that I wanted the heart to rouse you. I need but little sleep.”

“Naughty. What about my masculine pride?”

She made a face at him. “I forgot that. Men are such foolish carls about it. But come.” She danced a step or two. “Tirra-lirra, a brave day! Let’s forth and seek our breakfast.”

As they walked along, Belphebe peering toward thickets for an edible target and Shea a bit woozy from lack of sleep; he asked: “D’you suppose Cambina will have calmed Artegall down so he’ll listen to my explanations before he starts carving?”

“A thing to think on! Will you hide whilst I speak him fair?”

“Guess I’ll take a chance on his temper.” Shea wasn’t going to have his dreamgirl suspect him of timidity at this stage. He was sure he could outrun the bulky justiciar if necessary.

“Marry, I would not have you answer otherwise!” She smiled at him, and he felt rewarded. She went on, scrutinizing him: “Many knights, squires, and yeomen have I keened, Master Harold, but never a wight like you. You speak fair, yet half the time with words I wot not of. You promised to explain the meanings of those wherewith you put the Blatant Beast to rout.”

Shea replied: “Curiosity killed a cat.”

“Miauw!
Yet of this cat’s allotted nine, I have several left to draw upon.”

“I really can’t, Belphebe. Magical reasons.”

“Oh. Well then, tell me the meaning of the strange thing you called the Lady Cambina even now.”

“Psychologist?”

“Aye.”

Shea gave an account in words of one syllable of the science of psychology, and of his own experiences in its practice. Under the girl’s admiring curiosity he expanded. Before he knew it he was practically telling her the story of his life. As soon as he realized this, he cut his autobiography off short, not wanting to leave her with nothing to be curious about.

Belphebe said: “A strange tale, Squire. Gin you speak truth, this homeland of yours were worth the seeing.” She sighed a little. “The wilds of Faerie I know like my own palm. And since I will not tarry at Gloriana’s tedious court, there’s nothing left for me but to hunt the Losels and such vile—
Sst!”
She broke off, moved slowly a couple of steps, and loosed an arrow. It knocked over a rabbit.

While they dressed and cooked their breakfast, Shea thought. He finally ventured: “Look here, kid, some day Doc and I will be going back, I suppose. Why don’t you plan to come with us?”

Belphebe raised her eyebrows. “ ’Tis a thought audacious. But stay—could I live among the woods-paths as I do here?”

“Unh.” Shea imagined the horrible complications that would ensue if Belphebe tried to lead her present life in Ohio’s close-fenced farmland. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be practical. But there’s plenty else to do.”

“What then? How should I live in one of your great towns?”

That problem had not occurred to Shea. He revised his estimate of Belphebe. The girl might look like something out of a medieval romance, but she had a core of hard common sense. The only job he could think of for her was giving bow-and-arrow lessons, and he heardly supposed the demand for professional archers to be large.