The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (2 page)

Stephen ate all but half the loaf of bread.  This, he meticulously shredded onto the dirtiest part of the floor, and swirled it around in the dirt and ashes.

No enchanter worth his salt is ever completely without tools.  When he had been arrested, Smith had gone through his pockets, removing anything he deemed potentially magical, valuable, or dangerous.  Stephen had lost three vials of viscous black liquid, a gold watch, a rowan wand, a handful of colored marbles, a brass ring, an enchanted knife, a rock with a hole in it, and all the modest living he had spent his life accruing.

And Stephen was angry about it.

He was angry, but the silver and iron on his wrists suppressed his magic, pushing it down deep until it simmered out of reach, useless.  He could not escape, he could not revenge himself, and he could not enchant anything. 

Not in the normal way. 

Not in the safe way.

Stephen scratched along the cracks and corners of his cell, sweeping more dirt and rubble into his pile until it rose three inches.  Then he leaned in close, plugged one nostril at a time, and snorted out blood and mucus onto the pile.  When no more came, he spit into the mess until his mouth was dry.

The pile on the floor was now a thick, sticky, malleable glob.

Stephen made a mental note to wash his hands before he ate again.

Working with the spit-mud mixture was delicate and frustrating work.  The glob was a poor substitute for clay, and Stephen’s fingers felt stiff and cold from the proximity of iron.  It was only with considerable effort and patience that Stephen managed to mold the mixture into a dumpy, lopsided, four-legged stool-shaped little monster with a single eye and a gaping mouth.

Stephen unlatched the window, pushed it as far open as it would go—about six inches—and propped the spit-mud creature on the sill to dry.  The spit-mud creature itself stood only a little taller than his forefinger and, as it hardened, it shed flakes of bread and dirt and—when Stephen adjusted it—a leg.

It was too late to reattach the leg; he would have to start over again if he did.  Stephen released the damaged creature.  To his relief, although it teetered precariously, it remained upright.

Stephen snapped his fingers and twiddled his thumbs and waited.  He paced.  He imagined scenarios.  He concluded that this was a stupid idea that would never work and would only be dangerous if it did.  He waited as long as he dared, but at last he had to return to the spit-mud.

There were three kinds of human magic-user in the world, each with its advantages and disadvantages.  Of the three, only enchanters could access the magic inside themselves.  Witches and wizards relied on properties of magic within stones and plants and animals; sorcerers leached it from enchanted objects and people.  Bound as he was, Stephen could not access the magic inside him—but now there were parts of him that were no longer inside, no longer bound: blood, mucus, and saliva.  In theory, he should be able to use some form of sympathetic magic to access them.

It wouldn’t be easy.  It wouldn’t be legal.  Under other circumstances, Stephen would never have tried it.

Desperation, they say, is the mother of invention.

All this, Stephen whispered to the spit-mud creature.  He told it that as long as it avoided iron, it should be able to survive.  He pointed out that it could not live long while they were separated, but if he became unbound, he could channel magic to it, make its enchantment permanent.  He told it that he was afraid.  He begged it to come alive and find someone to help him.

The little tripod monster opened its eyes and took a wobbly step forward.  The stump of its fourth leg wagged impotently with every step, and the spit-mud looked imploringly up at Stephen.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen murmured, “but I can’t fix it, not wearing these manacles.  The iron would kill you.”

The spit-mud creature limped reproachfully to the edge of the window, tripping over its own legs.  It bowed its head, hopped through the window onto the snowy ground, and skittered away out of sight.

Stephen smiled after it.

“There aren’t many enchanters who could have done even such a measly enchantment while bound,” he told himself.  “You’re a marvel.  You should be proud.”

He shut the window, lay down, and tried to sleep.

“Execute every act of your life as though it were your last.”

—
Marcus Aurelius

Stephen awoke with a sneeze
.  The room was somewhat lighter than the last time he had looked, and Butcher was gone, but there was no sign of a rescue party.

“Sleep well?” Butcher asked, entering the room with a tray.

“Not really.”

“I didn’t expect you had.  I’ve brought you some breakfast.  Martha—that’s my wife—makes wonderful bread.”

“It smells delicious,” said Stephen, who couldn’t, at that moment, smell a thing.  “Your wife, eh?  What’s your name?”

Butcher froze.  “Oh, no,” he said.  “You’re not going to catch me that way.  Everyone knows better than to give an enchanter his name.”

“What could I possibly do?  I’m bound.”

“Even so.”

“Come on—is it that hard to be courteous to an enchanter?  Here I am, held on false charges, bound by iron and silver, forced to sleep on the floor of a dirty little room, and now the knowledge of my jailor’s name is denied me!”

Butcher shifted uncomfortably.  “It’s nothing personal.”

“Then tell me!”

“Ah—no, I can’t do that.  You might use it to bedazzle me.”

“I’m bound!  If I weren’t bound, don’t you think I’d have done something about being locked away? Besides,” Stephen added, calming down a little, “I don’t bear you personally any ill will.  It’s not your fault I’m stuck in here, and I bet you’re not happy about it either.  No doubt you want to be home with your Martha and her bread.”

Butcher shoved the tray at Stephen.  “Eat.”

“I’d really rather know your name.”

Butcher folded his arms and watched while Stephen ate.  Only when the bread and cheese was gone did he speak again.  “I want your word,” he said.

“What?”

“I let my wife’s name slip, and that was wrong of me.  She doesn’t deserve to be punished for my mistakes.  I want your word that you won’t use her name against her or mine against me, and that you just want to know my name out of curiosity.  Give me your word, and I’ll tell you.”

That was easily enough done.  Even if Stephen got the opportunity to bedazzle his guard’s wife, he wouldn’t.  Bedazzlement was illegal . . . and Stephen wasn’t entirely sure how it was done.  He’d never tried.  “You have my word,” he said.

“My name,” said the guard, “is Marcus.”

“Nice to meet you, Marcus,” Stephen said cheerfully.  He did not offer his own name and Marcus did not ask.  Each fell back into his own thoughts.

Whether His Honor the Mustached Judge enjoyed keeping people waiting or was simply fond of sleeping in, Stephen didn’t know.  But the morning was well worn before anyone else came.

“You can go home and get some rest,” Smith told Marcus the butcher.  “We’ll take him from here.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing this out,” said Marcus.  “After fourteen hours on guard, I deserve that much—and everyone else will be there.  I’ll sleep afterwards.”

“I’m curious also,” said Stephen, climbing to his feet.  “Judge Mustache has certainly taken his time.  Doesn’t he know it’s rude to keep people waiting?”

“You may soon wish he’d taken longer,” Shopkeep said ominously.

Stephen was too busy wishing his room wasn’t still glaringly devoid of rescue party.  “In that case, I can sit down and wait some more, but I warn you—I may become slightly grumpy at being neglected.  You could at least remove these cumbersome manacles.”

“We don’t have time for this,” said Smith.  He turned to Marcus.  “Stay or go as you like, but don’t fuss.  Open the door and stand aside.”

Marcus produced a key from one of his pockets, and it occurred to Stephen that he could have procured it while Marcus slept and snuck out.

Although that would have made him look really guilty.  And breaking out of prison was illegal.

“It was nice to meet you,” Stephen told Marcus.  “Give my regards to Martha.”

“Did he talk this much all night?” Shopkeep asked Marcus.

“Just get him out of here,” said Smith.

Stephen shut up and concentrated on trying to reach his magic so he could give Smith something to remember him by—underwear enchanted to be extra itchy, maybe.

His bonds remained cold and not a spark of magic left his fingertips.

He knew he should probably be more afraid.  He should be terrified, panicking—but he felt numbly calm instead, and was almost not surprised when, instead of leading him back to the courtroom, Smith and Shopkeep pushed him outside into the sharp morning sunlight.  “Where are we going?” he asked.  “I’m not really dressed to be outside.  I ought to put on a hat, or my cold will get worse.”

Smith thought the idea of putting on a hat outrageously funny.

“Enough!” Stephen commanded in his best enchanter’s voice.  “Tell me immediately—where are we going?”

He could hear a crowd up ahead, and see the path where dozens of feet had trampled the snow.  They were all gathered in the town square, shouting and laughing.  Several had pitchforks and other, equally pokey farm implements.

“A lynching?” Stephen croaked, aghast.  Surely no one could be that uncivilized.  He stopped in his tracks.  Smith and Shopkeep pulled him on.

“Not a lynching,” said Marcus, frowning.  “I don’t see any rope.  But I do think this is premature.  Has his honor reached a verdict yet?  We didn’t hear it.”

“Popular opinion and new information swayed him,” Shopkeep said.

“Very convincing information,” Smith added.  “We don’t like enchanters.”

“We’re quite nice people, actually,” said Stephen, who still could not believe what was going on.  “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Yes,” said Smith, “yours.  You should never have come to this town.”

“I only wanted some food!”

“Did you think we’d believe that?  This morning, we discovered what else you’d brought, what else you did.  You won’t escape.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What
are
you talking about?” Marcus echoed.

“You stay out of this,” said Smith.  “Go home and get some rest—or check on your wife.”

“What do you mean?”

“And the little ones.  You won’t find them in the crowd ahead.”

Marcus shot Stephen a terrified glance.

“What?  I didn’t do anything!”

“You’d better hurry,” said Smith.

Marcus took off running.

“But I didn’t do anything.  And lynching’s immoral!”

“This isn’t a lynching,” Shopkeep said, disgusted.  “Everyone knows you can’t kill an enchanter by hanging him.  We’re going to cut off your head and stuff your mouth with garlic and bury you at the crossroads.”

“The ground’s frozen solid,” said Stephen.  “Besides, that’s what you do for vampires—and you also have to wash their bones and bury them mixed up, or they’ll put themselves back together.  Which is rather disgusting, when you think about it.”

“I suppose we could do that, too,” Shopkeep said thoughtfully, “though it seems an awful waste of time.  I reckon burning your corpse would work just as well, and then we wouldn’t have to bury you at all.”

Stephen had no answer for this; decapitation alone would be enough to kill him, and he wasn’t likely to care what happened to his body afterwards.  He tugged at his arms again, but Smith and Shopkeep held him firmly.

They couldn’t really be doing this.  Not to him.

His nose began to run.

Smith and Shopkeep pulled him into the square and through the mob.  Townsfolk pushed and prodded and poked him, shouting angrily in his ear.

In the center of the town square was a raised platform, and on the platform an enormous chopping block liberally stained with pig’s blood.  “Does Marcus know you nicked his stuff?” Stephen asked Smith.  “It doesn’t look very hygienic.”

“It’s about to get even more unhygienic,” said Smith.

Yes, this was happening.  To him.  To Stephen the Enchanter, who had never broken the law in his life.  No rescue party was coming.  He was walking, almost calmly, to his death.  Everyone in this square wanted him dead.  If he managed to escape Smith and Shopkeep, he’d be torn to death by farm implements.

And he had a cold.  It was so undignified.

Because that was much worse than simply having his head chopped off.

Maybe if he stomped on Smith’s foot and put an elbow in Shopkeep’s gut and—

And he had the fighting skills of a squirrel.  What good would resisting do?  He should have escaped when he had had the chance, instead of wasting this time and energy on a stupid disabled spit-mud creature.

Stephen was pulled to the side of the platform.  He could smell the old blood on the block.  He lifted his manacles and contemplated them.  Silver glinted.

“You’ve done it wrong,” someone said in an uncommonly deep and gravelly voice.  “You’ve manacled his hands in front.”

The speaker was a tall, thickset man dressed all in expensive blacks and wearing an executioner’s hood.  He stood on top of the raised platform, a double-headed axe strapped to his back.  Smith pushed Stephen up the stairs to stand beside the block.

“Don’t you people know any better?” the Executioner went on.  “You’re supposed to manacle wrists beside the back for a beheading.

“That you, Randy?” Smith asked suspiciously.

“Randy?  Do I look short, fat, and too drunk to stand?”

“Randy’s drunk?”

“He certainly was when I saw him.  He was staggering around singing.  His wife had to gag him and shove him in bed.  It’s lucky for you I was staying with him.”

“And you are . . .”

“His cousin.  I’d tell you my name, only that’s an enchanter you have there.”

“Not that it matters,” said Stephen, “since I’m bound and soon to be headless—despite the fact that I did nothing wrong.”

“Bound—yes!” exclaimed the Executioner.  “That is exactly the problem at which I’m driving.  Look at those manacles!  How am I supposed to behead him?”

“You could take the manacles off,” Stephen suggested.  “I wouldn’t mind.”

Smith whirled on him.  “I’m warning you—”

“Actually,” the Executioner interrupted, “he speaks remarkably good sense for a man facing imminent death.  I suppose he doesn’t want it to hurt—which it certainly will, if his shoulders get in the way.  Remove the manacles and put them back on properly.”

“You stupid or something?”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s a wizard!  You unbind him and he’ll disappear like that.”

“Enchanter,” said Stephen.  “I’m an enchanter.”

“Then don’t unbind him all the way,” the Executioner rumbled impatiently.  “Only undo one wrist. The silver and iron will still work.”

“That’s an awful chance.”

“Definitely,” Stephen agreed.  “It’s much safer to undo both manacles.”