The Complete Compleat Enchanter (48 page)

She gave him a long, slow glance and accepted the offer with slightly trembling hands. The shaking quieted. “My thanks and good grace to you, Sir Harold,” she said, “for I perceive that it is to you I owe this. It is like—like—” She seemed to flounder for a lost memory.

Shea said: “In Latin they would say, ‘
In vino Veritas’
.”

“Oh, aye. Taunt me not; I should have seen him with clear eyes when he would have left you in the tent or put the hermit to the torture. A niggeling and wittold does not make himself a true man with a lute and fair words.”

She sat down and pressed the palms of both hands to her eyes. Shea sat beside her and put an arm round her shoulders, but she shook him off. From the background Roger croaked: “Flee away from thish ill-omened wench.”

Shea could not be sure whether she was crying or not, and his heart turned flip-flops as he tried to think of something to do. He wished he had not drunk so much of the peach brandy; there seemed to be a haze between him and what he was trying to think.

The hands came down and Belphegor turned a woebegone face toward him. “Nay, the fault’s my own,” she said, in a flat voice, “and you have been my true knight that would have saved me from a villain. Heigh-ho!” She sighed and stood up. “It falls dusk and we must sup soon if we’re to take the road of our quest tomorrow. Nay, no hand-kissing; I’ll not have these empty courtesies.”

Fifteen

They came down a hill toward Pau through the morning light. “I suppose we could get some horses there,” remarked Shea, gazing at the range of thatched roofs. “Has nobody any money? I’m broke, and we haven’t got Medoro with his gold bracelets.”

Belphegor laughed. “Not a groat, I. To those of the woodland seed ’tis the forbidden thing.”

Shea looked at Roger. “O man,” said the paladin, “know that the hardest of riding is better than the easiest footgoing, as says al-Qa’saf. But as for money, what need? You have a sword to take or magics to make as does my uncle Atlantès when he would have money.”

Shea gazed at Roger in astonishment. It was about the first time he had ever heard the big man express an idea, and for a wonder, it seemed a fairly good one. The only trouble was that he had a little less than no idea what type of spell would produce money. The passes, yes—one could manage those—but the psychosomatic element? Well, one could only try.

A hundred yards or so back a bank had caved in on a deposit of fine golden sand. He scooped up a double handful of this, laid it on a handkerchief and tied the corners together. Then he laid the improvised pouch on the ground and traced out a pair of interlacing pentacles, like those on the doors of Atlantès’ room in Castle Carena. Belphegor was watching him, and it disturbed him slightly.

“Take this guy a little way off and cover him, will you?” he asked. “Don’t let him watch.”

The spell—ah, yes, of course, good old Kipling. He chanted:

“Iron’s for the soldier, silver for the maid,

Copper for the craftsman, working at his trade.

Sand is but silly stuff, sifting to a fall;

But gold, red gold! is the master of them all.”

The handkerchief sagged and looked lumpy. Shea picked it up and heard a gratifying clink within. “All right,” he called. “I guess we’re set now.”

The approaches to Pau seemed curiously deserted, the brown and green fields vacant of working men, no women and children at the doorways. Shea puzzled over it until he recalled what the wine-merchant had said about the auto-da-fé, and felt a sudden need for haste. But just at that moment a clanging sound came to his ears, and across the street he perceived a village smith, hammering away at an open-air anvil.

Shea led his prisoner over, and greetings were exchanged. “Where is everybody today?” he asked.

The smith jerked a thumb. “Down the road. Saint’s shrine,” he said shortly. “Auto-da-fé for the monster. Can’t waste time myself.” He hefted his hammer, in evident desire for them to be gone so he could carry on with his job. Shea thought these Basques a singularly uncommunicative lot. Nevertheless, he tried again: “Monster? What monster?”

“Devil. Looks like a wolf. Caught in a wolf-net.”

That would be Votsy, all right. The need for hurry was becoming acute, but horses would help. “We’d like to buy horses.” He jingled the handkerchief of money.

The lines round the smith’s eyes wrinkled craftily. “Have some,” he said. “Come, see.”

“I don’t think I need to. You see, we’re rather in a hurry with this prisoner, and we can get any money we spend back from the baron where we’re taking him.”

Suspicion mingled with the craft. The smith was clearly not used to dealing with customers who bought without asking the price. “Ten bezants,” he said, flatly.

“Okay,” said Shea. “Lead them out.” He opened up his handkerchief-purse and produced a handful of bright gold pieces. As they touched the anvil, however, they instantly changed to little pinches of sand. The smith looked at them and then at Shea. “What’s this?” he demanded.

Shea could feel a flush creeping up his face. “Ha, ha, just a joke,” he said hollowly, and reaching into the pile, selected another handful to hand them to the smith. But suspicion had now completely gained the upper hand in the man. He rang each piece on the anvil, or tried to, for as soon as metal touched metal, these too dissolved into little cones of sand.

“Scoundrel! Cheat! Magician!” bellowed the man, gripping his hammer in both hands. “Out! Out! Ha, priest!”

Fortunately, he did not offer to pursue as the three beat a hasty retreat. Too late, on the road again, Shea remembered that Kipling’s original poem had made iron, not gold, the master of them all, so that of course the spell had gone sour. It did not help matters any that even with the halter around his neck, Roger was snickering.

Shea turned toward the girl. “Look,” he said. “This hasn’t anything to do with the job we’re working on—” he glanced at Roger “—but I think a friend of mine is in trouble. Would it put you out too much to speed up the works?”

For answer she actually smiled at him. “Lead on,” she said, and taking one of the arrows from her quiver, prepared to urge Roger to speed; but then: “Hold. Here’s one that weeps and may not, for chivalry, be neglected.”

Shea turned. With her back toward him and feet in the ditch that bordered the road, there was indeed one that wept. Her black hair was neatly ordered and her figure was young, which lent a certain predisposition toward relieving her distress. As the three halted beside her, she turned a face definitely pretty, though tear-streaked and somewhat dirty, toward them. “They—they—they seek to slay my sweetheart,” she got out, before dissolving in another torrent of sobbing.

Belphegor said: “Sir Harold, whatever else you be charged with, here is a quest that turns all quests aside; a woman unjustly in trouble, to wit.”

“I don’t know about the unjustice,” said Shea. “But let’s see.” He addressed the weeping girl. “Who’s they? You mean the people who are holding the auto-da-fé on the monster?”

“Aye. No more monster than me. Am I a monster?” She spread her arms and Shea noticed that her dress was low cut in front.

“Marry, tears mend no torn bodices,” said Belphegor, just a trifle acidly.

“The—the priest t-t-took him down to the Saint’s cross for burning. Save him!”

Shea hesitated, then looked at Belphegor. The girl was frowning, but she said strictly: “Sir Harold, meseems that her plaint would be of that friend you bespeak.”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “You take—no, you’ll need both hands for the bow, and I only need one for the sword. Giddy-ap, Roger.” He unsheathed the blade; the girl who had been doing the weeping tagged along behind.

The road turned a shoulder and slanted up a hillside from which figures were visible, moving against the skyline. One or two people turned round, but nobody seemed in the least curious about the spectacle of a Saracen and a red-headed bow-girl leading a monstrous warrior by a noose. As he topped the rise and pressed forward, Shea saw why. The road here ran along the outer edge of a wide terrace on the side of the mountain. On the innermost edge of the terrace, against the cliff, something had been carved which looked rather like a phallic symbol with a halo round its head. In front of this singular erection a huge pyre of wood was erected, and around it a hundred or so peasants were crowding.

The wood was burning vigorously, and in its center, bound to a stake by neck and all four legs, was a huge gray wolf. The logs on which it sat were already a bed of hot coals, the flames around it were consuming its bonds, but except for the fact that the wolf had its tongue out and was panting, it seemed utterly unconcerned with the proceedings.

Shea suddenly recalled the spell under which Atlantès had let Polacek and himself out of the castle’s flaming border, and wanted to laugh. Instead he said: “Hello, folks.”

Talk died in a circle like ripples spreading from a thrown stone in a pool. A man in a patched black robe, who had been throwing sticks toward the center of the fire, turned and came toward him, blinking with near-sightedness.

“What goes on, Father?” asked Shea.

The priest produced a cross and began to mumble. “Oh, that’s all right,” said Shea. “I’m not a Saracen, and anyway I’m a friend of the hermit of the mountain.” He indicated his prisoner. “See? We’ve captured Roger of Carena.”

The priest studied the prisoner’s face, pressing his own close. Roger hawked and spat, but only succeeded in adding another spot on the patched gown. The priest came toddling back toward Shea. “Worshipful sir,” he said, “I perceive you are a very mighty man, and I trow, a good Christian. Sir, in your might, perchance you can aid us. Here have we a very demon from the uttermost depths of hell, in monster form, but his master Beelzebub, who is the Lord of Fire, will not permit him to burn.”

Shea said: “I’m not sure he’s as bad as you think. Had it occurred to you that he might be just a good man under an enchantment?” He stepped forward and raising his voice, addressed the wolf: “Are you Vaclav Polacek?”

The wolf barked twice and nodded vigorously, then raising one paw to emphasize the point, tore away the burned rope that held it. There was a universal “Ooooh” and backward movement in the crowd.

“I thought Doc Chalmers told you to lay off that stuff,” said Shea, disgustedly. “Can you get loose?”

“Oow! Ououw! Ouououw!” said the wolf.

“Well, lay off it for a minute, for the love of Mike, till I get you off the hook.” He turned toward the priest. “It’s like I said. He’s a Christian squire under an enchantment. I am Sir Harold de Shea.” He did his best to strike an attitude. The priest looked at him with near-sighted skepticism.

“Votsy!” said Shea. “This guy don’t believe you’re the goods. If those ropes are burned through enough, come over here and lick one of his feet.”

“Wrrrower!” howled the wolf, and leaped against his ropes. They gave; there was a universal scream of terror from the assembled peasants and they scattered as the animal came leaping through the flames, throwing burning coals in all directions. The priest stood his ground, but his face was set in tight lines and he was vigorously fingering his rosary as the wolf that was Votsy sat down and licked at his feet. After a moment or two the priest put one hand down and gingerly patted his head, but removed the hand instantly as up the valley, in the direction they were going, a bugle sounded, “Rump-te-umpte-um-tum.” At least it sounded like a bugle. All the notes were flat.

Everybody gazed. Up the rise came a column of horsemen, headed by three who bore slender spears with dirty pennons of colored wool too heavy for the slow motion of their progress to lift and make clear. Behind them came the bugler, and behind them again, three knights in full plate armor with their helmets banging at their knees. Shea recognized Count Roland d’Aglante and Reinald of Montalban; the third had slightly more delicate features and a surcoat over his mail divided red and white across the middle, with a huge gold buckle occupying the center. They were followed by a score or more of mounted men-at-arms in iron hats with brims and mail-shirts of overlapping metal scales. His eyes were torn from the sight by an inarticulate burp from Roger, who suddenly seemed to have difficulty with his breathing, though the halter had not been pulled tight.

There was no point in trying to conceal anything. Shea stepped boldly to the center of the road and, holding his hand up like a traffic cop, said: “Hey!”

The bugle gave a toot, and the riders pulled up. Reinald cried: “ ’Tis the turban knight! How hight he—Sir Harold de—du Chaille? No matter. Hail, fair Belphegor!”

“Regard!” said the knight in the surcoat, in a high voice. “Roger of Carena, and in bonds. This may not be borne!” The knight vaulted down and Shea realized that “he” was a handsome, brown-haired woman of showgirl size. She whipped a dagger from her belt. Roger was apparently trying to use one of his feet to dig a hole to fall into, his gaze fixed on the ground. Shea thrust himself between the two. “Listen,” he said, “this guy’s my prisoner.”

Count Roland looked down from his horse benignly. “My lady and fair cousin Bradamant, peace; for this is good law. This young sir is a dubbed knight, Sir Harold de Shea, to wit, and if he holds Lord Roger bound it is by right of fair conquest.”

“Then I challenge him!” said Bradamant, picking at her belt for a pair of gloves. “For this is my very soul and love and I will assay all desperately upon the body of any who holds him. Lord Reinald, be my aid.”

“Cut them down!” said Reinald harshly.

Roland leaped down from his own horse, clanging like an earthquake in a kitchen. “Then must I even stand his, to make the balance fair; for this is a very gentle knight that has done me much service. Ho, Durandal!” He lifted up a great cross-hilted sword, and Belphegor drew back a couple of steps, snatching an arrow from her quiver and bending her bow—not at Bradamant but at Roger. Shea admired his wife’s presence of mind, even if the mind was not entirely her own. Reinald looked black, but Bradamant checked her rush, and gave a little laugh.

“Nay, gentles,” she said, “let us not fall on contention when Saracen banners be over the next crest, but dissolve this in amicable agreement. Sir Harold, my hand.” She put the dagger back and extended it.