The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (14 page)

“That’s enough,” the Jolly Executioner interrupted.  “I have enough to do without listening to your ravings—and the Enchanter has finished eating.  Don’t argue!”

“I wasn’t going to,” she sniffed.  She picked up her skirts with great dignity and swept upstairs.

Pet lingered by the entrance to the kitchen, watching.

“Explain yourself,” the Jolly Executioner said.

“Why should I?  There was nothing in our agreement that said I couldn’t take odd jobs.  My warding this inn in no ways hinders the company—it might help, if we’re staying a second night.”

“What did you do to them?”

“The innkeepers?  I haven’t done anything to—ah.  You mean the company.  I haven’t done anything to them, either.”

Stephen looked up at the Jolly Executioner, keeping his face innocently blank.  He would have given a great deal to know what the Jolly Executioner was thinking.

“Last I saw them,” Stephen saw, “they were all asleep in their rooms.  I didn’t look closely, but I did have to go everywhere while enchanting.”

“And you came across nothing unusual.”

“It smelled like someone had been sick, but I didn’t stop to investigate.  I was busy.”

The Jolly Executioner’s hood remained impassive.

“Is there anything else?”

“No,” said the Jolly Executioner, in a tone that made it sound like
yes
.  But Pet, who had impeccable timing, brought out his porridge, and he said no more, and Stephen still didn’t know what he was thinking.

The rest of the company was not so easily put off.

Miss Ironfist was the first to make her way downstairs.  “You look well,” she observed to Stephen.  She did not look well.  Both her eyes had been blackened and her face was all over pinch marks.

“Do I?” said Stephen.  “I guess I’ve been awfully grungy since Crying, and camping didn’t help much.  Good food and clean clothing can work wonders.  You yourself might look almost human, except for those marks.”

“Not only clean but healthy,” Miss Ironfist continued.  “Suspiciously healthy.  You look like you slept soundly.”

“For the most part, I did.  It was nice to sleep in a bed again—I admit, sleeping on the hard snow never agreed with me.  You must have slept deeply, if you just got up—it is nearly two o’clock.”

“She’s right,” said Granite, who had followed Miss Ironfist in.  “You look healthy.”

“Right as rain,” Whimsy agreed, “if rain is right.”

“I saw you,” Feedledum rasped, barely able to force out words.  Nearly half the company had congregated and—with much whispering—was communicating their suspicions concerning a certain enchanter.  “You said you would come back, but you never did.”

“Did I?”

“I saw you too,” Arm put in.  “You made mystical signs over me.”

“I certainly did not.  I have better things to do in the middle of the night—like sleep.”

“You were in my room!  Do you deny it?”

“Last night?  Yes!  This morning—this morning, I was in every inch of this inn, inside and out, erecting wards.  The innkeepers saw me, as did the Jolly Executioner.”

“But you were in my room last night,” said Feedledum.  “You spoke to me.  I didn’t dream that.”

Stephen shrugged.  “I thought I heard a noise—a sort of thumping—and it disturbed me, so I came to investigate.  I found you and Craggy and Weakstomach playing some sort of bizarre game, asked Craggy to stop thumping, and went back to bed.”

“I’m sure you did!”

“Yes.  I did.”

“That’s enough,” said the Jolly Executioner, who had been watching in silence.  “I have already discussed this matter with the Enchanter, and it has been resolved to my satisfaction.”

“Your satisfaction!” Arm cried.  “He enchanted us!”

“He isn’t hurt!”

“Look at him—you can see the guilt on his face!”

“I didn’t enchant you,” Stephen protested.  “Even if I’d wanted to, how on earth would I go about enchanting twenty people at once?  And how idiotic would I have to be to leave myself the only one unaffected?  Why you all went mad—or whatever happened—last night, it had nothing to do with me.”

“Doesn’t it?” Granite asked quietly.  “You always hated Weakstomach.  You hated the way he saw right through you—don’t think no one noticed your reaction to taking those eyes.  You’ve been planning to get back at Weakstomach for that, and now he’s dead.”

Stephen had half-expected this, and managed to maintain his enchanterly calm.  “Indeed,” he said.  “Indeed, I did not know that.  His death is certainly tragic, but it has nothing to do with me.”

Dead!  He had known it, deep down, had known the inevitable result to that much vomiting.  That was why he had taken such care not to look at Weakstomach while he had been warding the room. 

Dead!  What an undignified way to die.  The innkeepers would longer remember what a mess he’d made than they would his face.

Dead!  If Stephen understood correctly, that meant three men had died under the Jolly Executioner’s leadership, in the space of a month.  Stephen had been busy fearing monsters and accusations of going rogue; it hadn’t occurred to him that he should also be afraid of following the Jolly Executioner’s orders.  Following orders felt almost law-abiding.

“That’s enough,” said the Jolly Executioner.  “I will not have anyone accuse my enchanter.”  Ah, so that was why he had changed sides.  “Innkeeper!  We will not stay a second night.  There is a body in one of the rooms.  Dispose of that, and we will consider the accounts even.  Granite, Miss Ironfist—get the others.  Twitch—find Tinkerfingers and prepare the horses.”

Stephen slipped quietly away amidst the flurry of movement.  He stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

“Hello,” said Pet.  “What is it?”

Stephen frowned at her.  He would have preferred to say this to the innkeeper.  “Do you know why we came to Chubblewooble?” he asked.

“To stay in the inn,” said Pet.  “You’ve been traveling.”

“Yes, but do you know why?”

“I heard them talking in the common room last night, but it sounded like nonsense.”

“They’re bounty hunters,” said Stephen, “hired by the king.  They saved my life, and in return I enchant for them.  They ride from place to place, looking for monsters to slay.  The Jolly Executioner is especially keen on killing monsters.  He has a giant double-headed battleax made of such pure iron that it cut through enchantments.  No wards or illusions or fits of madness can touch him when he holds that axe.”

Pet’s eyes had grown wide at this (somewhat hyperbolic) exposition.  “But—there aren’t monsters around here, are there?”

“I know a lot about magic,” Stephen went on, “and a lot about wards.  I’ve lived and worked as a traveling enchanter for fifteen years.  I know how to read wards—how to place and remove them, how to recognize what’s wrong with them, and what they do.”

Pet nervously pulled a bowl of risen bread dough from a cupboard and began shaping it into rolls.  She didn’t look at Stephen.

“I was tired when I first came, and then I was holding iron.  But there was no mistaking it when I went around warding the inn; it had never been enchanted before.  And I met a man in the street, who wore iron bracelets around both wrists, and had been wearing them for years.  He was not mad—or not mad in the way produced by magic.”

“They’re not stupid, I guess,” said Pet.  “Maybe they’ve learned to protect themselves, like we have.  I’m glad.”

“Running water grounds magic,” said Stephen, “and stops magical creatures from crossing on their own—and the ferryman won’t help you.  Iron bands stop said creatures from coming too near, from feeding.  Merchants come and stay in the inn, and the inn has food, but the merchants never come back, and the town starves.”

“I think your leader is ready to leave,” said Pet.  “I wouldn’t want you to be late.  He’s pretty mean.”

“I made a deal with your mother, but the inn is your future.  I did what we agreed; I warded the inn; no enemy of yours will be able to enter this place.”

“I really think he’s going to be mad, unless you hurry.”

“You gave me your hair,” said Stephen, “and your name.  Either would have done, but I used both—just in case.  No enemy of spirit or flesh will cross this threshold.  But I added a second enchantment: none of your family will be able to leave this inn while you are still enemies of the townsfolk.”

Pet spun to face him, bread dough clenched in each hand.  “What?”

“You have plenty of food, and visitors come.  But I don’t really want you leaving.  At least here, your magic is contained by running water on two sides, and impenetrable landscape the third.”

Pet stared at him, her lips parted, no words emerging.

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth—but it was either that or tell the Jolly Executioner, and he would have killed you.”

“Enchanter!” the Jolly Executioner bellowed, right on schedule.  “Get out here—we’re leaving!”

“You’d better go,” said Pet, “before I tell Mother what you said.”

“I’m going,” Stephen promised, “and I won’t be back.”

It’s easy to do nothing when you ought to do something

When the something is something you ought to do

And the nothing is nothing you ought not do.

The company continued north
.  Travel was slow; the company was in dire need of rest and healing—only the Jolly Executioner and Stephen had escaped injury in Chubblewooble—but the Jolly Executioner refused to stop in any more towns.  This was, Stephen suspected, less to do with fear over another Chubblewooble, and more to do with the Jolly Executioner’s increasing desire for speed.

Medic pointed out that they would move more quickly if given time to heal.  The Jolly Executioner said the companions were sitting down, weren’t they?  That was restful.

Medic said that riding and resting were two different things.  Riding jolted injuries and forced the riders to pay attention.  Besides, making camp and hunting for food and caring for horses was hard work.

The Jolly Executioner told Medic to stop arguing and do something useful for a change.

Medic certainly had his hands full.  Craggy’s concussion was so severe that he could do little more than remain upright, and his horse had to be led—not by Stephen, who was not trusted (and who, besides, knew little of horses)—but by those companions who had escaped the worst of the madness.  Feedledum lost his voice entirely after the first day, and didn’t regain it for more than a week.  Miss Ironfist’s bruises faded slowly, and she had picked up the habit of running her fingers under her face scarf to feel for scarring.  Tinkerfingers had scratched away the skin on his left wrist, and had to keep his arm in a sling.

“The worst thing about it,” he told Stephen as they rode, “I mean, the really annoying thing is that it still itches.  You’d have thought Chubblewooble would’ve cured me of the desire to scratch, but it’s as bad as ever.”

“It itches because your skin is growing back,” said Medic.  “Don’t scratch.”

“I said I wanted to, not that I was going to.  I learned my lesson.  But I also think the itch is more than that; the actual itch isn’t bad where I scratched it; it’s moved up near my elbow.”

“Sensory coping mechanism.  Ignore it,” said Medic, and fell back to speak with Warthog, whose nose would never be the same.

“I told you not to scratch,” Youngster said, urging Craggy’s horse forward.  Youngster had no obvious injuries, and he had refused to tell anyone what the madness had done to him.  “But did you listen to me?  No.”

“Yes, thank you; I know.  Do you have any other brilliance to impart?”

“How about every word that drops from my lips?”

“Only if we’re going by vastly different definitions of ‘brilliance.’”

“I don’t think so.  Are you scratching again?”

“No!”

Stephen left Noble Steed to her own devices, and drew Deadman’s eyes from his pocket.  It was time to make a permanent monster, something that would fulfill the Jolly Executioner’s expectations—something that would remind the Jolly Executioner how dearly he wanted the Enchanter to remain alive.

“Are those what I think they are?” Tinkerfingers asked, in some disgust.  “I thought you didn’t want them.”

“I didn’t.  But since I have them, I’m not going to waste them.  These are perfectly good eyes.”

“Yes, but it’s not exactly respectful, is it?  Why don’t you bury them?”

“Banananose gave me permission.  Besides, my dog will need to see, and I’m unlikely to find anything better.”

“Your dog,” said Youngster.  “You’re making a dog?”

“Not exactly a dog.  A monster, really.  But I’m going to give it a dog-like consciousness.”

“I had a dog once.  A real dog, with floppy brown ears.”

“It was supposed to be a hunting dog,” Tinkerfingers said, “but was afraid of practically everything.”

“I liked her.  Her name was Mimi.”  He caught Stephen’s eye.  “I was about four years old when I got her.  I thought Mimi was a wonderful name.  Can you make yours look like her?  I can give you details.”

“Better yet,” said Tinkerfingers, “design a powerful dog, huge, a superb fighter, with massive teeth.  This dog should be more than a friend; it should be a monster-killer.”

“I wasn’t going to make it a literal dog,” Stephen protested.  “It’s just easier to say ‘dog’ than ‘permanently-enchanted monster.’”

“But you could make it look like a dog if you wanted, couldn’t you?” Youngster asked easily.  “You can make it look like whatever you want.  And a dog would be fun.  It wouldn’t only have to fight monsters—it could also fetch and hunt with us and protect us and warn us when danger was coming.  We could call it Superdog.”

Stephen got the feeling that Youngster had a rather higher opinion of Stephen’s artistic talents than Stephen deserved.  He had never considered making his animals look like real creatures; it was easily to shape them any which way, for function rather than form.  Even his snow serpent hadn’t looked particularly reptilian; it had looked like a snake mostly because it hadn’t had any legs.

On the other hand, there was something appealing about making a dog.  “It might not turn out exactly as you’d expect,” Stephen said cautiously.  “I’m limited by my materials, and my memories of dogs.”  Mostly, he was familiar with the large, vicious kind that the unfriendlier sort of farmer set on passing enchanters.

Stephen tucked the eyes away.  He would have to build the skeletal system first, imbuing every bone, every tendon, with magic.  Stephen frequently enchanted weapons and buildings that had been made by someone else, but those enchantments were only skin-deep.  All the really powerful enchantments had been poured into swords or rings as they had been forged: magic inside and out, never fading.

Hopefully.

The Jolly Executioner was forced to call breaks every few hours for the company to rest.  At the first of these, Stephen used his knife to cut a long wedge out of a sturdy-looking tree.  He spent the rest of the ride whittling at it, shaping it into the many bones of a dogleg.  It wasn’t as difficult as he had expected; he still had a vivid memory of skinning the fairy wolf.

“Why not use real bones?” Youngster asked.  “I’m sure we could find you a deer or wolf or something.  You don’t have to make your own.  You could find a dead dog—the next town might have one, recently buried—and bring it back to life.”

“No,” said Stephen.

“Why not?  You use body parts from other creatures—isn’t that why you took those trophies?”

“That’s recycling,” said Stephen; “what you’re suggesting is necromancy.”

“But you could do it, couldn’t you?”

“I can’t enchant living flesh.”

“But if it were already dead.”

“Then I wouldn’t want to.  I’m not sure I could.  But if I did manage it—then the creature wouldn’t be mine; it’d be itself.  You bring a wolf back, and it has a wolf brain, and is only tenuously controlled by magic, and—and it would be a recipe for disaster.”

And there’s something wrong about doing that
, Stephen wanted to say, but wasn’t sure how.  What would be wrong about it?  Why?  Would it work?

“Anyway,” he finished, “I’m not going to try.  So don’t ask.”

Every evening, when the company had set up camp, Medic made his rounds.  The company’s burns, cuts, and bruises mended steadily under his care and—no matter how displeased he was with the Jolly Executioner—Medic had to admit that the company was doing well.

Most of the company.

“How is your arm today?” Medic asked Tinkerfingers, tapping the sling.  “You haven’t been scratching, have you?”

“No,” Tinkerfingers said, guiltily snatching his fingers away.

“It won’t heal if you keep scratching.”

“I wasn’t—not the raw bit, anyway.  And that is healing.  I was scratching my shoulder.  My arm doesn’t hurt or itch at all anymore—I can hardly feel it.  The itch has migrated up my shoulder, and I have to scratch it, or it’ll drive me mad.”  Tinkerfingers had jumped up and strode around as he spoke, violently poking the air.

“The itch has migrated,” Medic said, coolly ignoring Tinkerfingers’s uncharacteristic show of temper.  “Really.”

“Yes!”

“It’s true,” Youngster volunteered.  “He’s been scratch-chasing it since before Chubblewooble—since the Beast of Quag.”

Medic remained dubious.

“It’s true.  Tell him, Enchanter.  You were there.”

Stephen had been wondering if he would get dragged into this.  He nodded cautiously.

“And neither you nor the Enchanter thought to tell me of this injury?”

“We thought it was just a rash,” said Youngster.  “There weren’t any bites or punctures or anything like that.  It still might be a rash.  Or a weird reaction.”

“Maybe,” said Medic.  “I wish someone had told me before.  I had been working on the assumption that the events on Chubblewooble had caused this—and now I’m told they merely exacerbated a pre-existing condition . . . one I might have been able to treat if only someone had told me.  No wonder it’s spreading.”

“It isn’t spreading,” said Tinkerfingers, annoyed.  “It’s moving.  It’s the same size as it always was—and it isn’t getting worse, either; it itches exactly the same amount . . . which was plenty bad to start with, believe you me.  I can hardly think of anything but how much I want the itching to stop.”

Medic was baffled.  He reexamined Tinkerfingers’s arm and chest, poked the itching spot—which was an irritated red from Tinkerfingers’s scratching, but was otherwise unmarked—shook his head, muttered to himself, and came to no conclusions whatsoever.  “Is it possible that you’re imagining—”

“No!  And if you can’t be helpful, why don’t you—” he checked himself.  “I’m sorry.  It’s this itch.  Can you do anything for it?  This itch is driving me crazy.”

“-er,” Youngster corrected halfheartedly.

“Maybe a cream?” Medic suggested.

“I was hoping for something more along the lines of cutting it out.  You could use a clean knife and—”

“That’s a little extreme.”

“It itches.  Listen, it’d be easy.  I could do it myself, if you have a knife I could use—mine’s not really the right shape.”

Stephen had heard enough.  If Tinkerfingers really was going to cut out a chunk of flesh, he had no desire to witness it.  He stood and walked away from the campsite, examining trees.  He wanted the perfect wood for his dog’s skull. 

The last two skulls Stephen had attempted to carve had gone wrong from the start, and Stephen suspected the wood was at fault—surely, it could not be his own skill.  He needed a younger tree, one vividly alive despite in the depths of January.  He needed a tree with good wood at least a foot in diameter, preferably pine . . . more because he liked the smell of pine than that he thought it particularly easy to work with.

When Stephen finally returned more than an hour later, proudly lugging a twelve-inch cube of pine, he was immediately accosted by Medic.  “The Enchanter wandered off.”

“That is true,” Stephen agreed.  “He did.  Look what he found.”  He held up the wood proudly—but not for long; his arms were weak from fatigue.

“The Enchanter must have known his services would be required.”

Stephen’s mind immediately went to Tinkerfingers’s notion of cutting out the itch.  Surely they wouldn’t have waited for him.  Surely.

“The Enchanter will be pleased to increase the efficacy of a medicinal cream.”

“This isn’t about cutting out the itch, then?” Stephen asked hopefully.  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to help with that; enchantment isn’t really made for medicine.”