The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter (37 page)

“I saw what you did to Robin,” said Youngster.  “The others didn’t see, but I was ahead of them.”

Yes; Stephen remembered.  But Youngster hadn’t seen what Stephen had done to the Chubblewooble innkeepers or old Mrs. Beanstraw, or all the times when Stephen had unconsciously slipped a strand of compulsion magic into his voice . . . and Stephen wasn’t about to tell him.

“Here we are,” said Betsy Wright, returning with a platter full of treats.  “You two eat up, and we’ll talk of nothing at all until my husband arrives.  That way, you only have to tell your story once.  He won’t be long and—and I think I want to wait for him, to hear your tale.  Go on—eat.  You two look like you haven’t had a proper meal in ages.”

Stephen and Youngster obeyed.  As they devoured the treats, Betsy told Stephen a story about Youngster and Tinkerfingers, when they had been very young.  Stephen listened carefully and laughed dutifully, and wondered how to tell the Wrights how—and why—Tinkerfingers had died.

Betsy was halfway through the humorous story of Tinkerfingers’s eighth birthday party when the front door was swung open and a tall, smiling man with Youngster’s build and Tinkerfingers’s quick hands burst in, shouting, “Betsy, look what I’ve built!  I think I’ve finally done it—the perfect, unpickable lock!”

Betsy stood up and looked calmly at her husband, and he finally noticed their guests.  “Excellent!  You two can by my test subjects—you don’t mind, do you?”

“I’ve always enjoyed testing your locks,” said Youngster, “but no lock is unpickable.”

“What?  Martin—is that you?  Yes, I see that it is.  What have you done to yourself?  You look much worse.  No; no matter, and this is—no, this isn’t Algernon; I’m fairly sure of that,” he said, then added in an aside to Stephen, “unless I’ve gone completely blind.”

“I’m not your son,” said Stephen.

“No, I thought not; you look like an enchanter, and if there’s one thing my Algernon is not, it’s an enchanter.  But this is excellent!  I’ve never had a magic-user test my locks before.  Superb!”  He shoved something small and steel into Stephen’s hands.  “There—try and open that.  Use magic, if you like.”

“Garth,” said Betsy gently, “your son Martin is home at last, and he’s brought news of Algernon.”

“Yes, yes, and I’ll deal with that in just a moment, but if I could just—no, I see I can’t,” he finished, seeing his wife’s expression.  Then, to Stephen, “I’ve gone and put my foot in it again, haven’t it?  Maybe this isn’t a good time for lock testing.  But don’t you go away.”

“I don’t know anything about locks, anyway,” said Stephen.

“Pity, pity.  Never too late to learn.  Who are you, then?  Have we met?”

“This is Martin’s enchanter friend, dear,” Betsy told her husband.  “His name is Stephen.  Stephen, this is my husband, Garth Wright.”

“Ah, good, excellent, fabulous.  Now that we’re all introduced, why don’t we crowd into the kitchen and sample my wife’s superb cooking and you two can tell us all about your adventures, and about Algernon, and—say, Stephen, what’s it like being an enchanter?”

“I don’t know,” replied Stephen, baffled.  “I’ve never been anything else.  I’m fond of it.”

“Garth . . .” Betsy warned, and her husband looked helplessly at Stephen.

“I’ve gone and done it again,” he said sadly.

“Father,” said Youngster, “aren’t you glad to see me?”

“What?  Oh, yes—overjoyed!  It has been an awful while, hasn’t it?  I’m glad you’re back now—to stay, I hope.  What happened to your brother?  You two always used to stick together.  Like flypaper, I always thought.  Grew your own backbone, did you?”

“Tinkerfingers is dead,” Youngster said flatly.

“Algernon,” Stephen hissed at him.

“Algernon is dead,” Youngster corrected himself, equally flatly.  “Everyone in the company is dead, except us.”

“And Stump.”

“Everyone in the company is dead except us and a man whose real name I don’t know but whom we call Stump because he lost an arm fighting the same terrible monster who killed Tink—Algernon.”

“He’s a baker now, in Robin’s Haven,” said Stephen.  “Stump that is, not Algernon.  Robin’s Haven is a town guarded by a dreadful monster, but that’s all right, probably.”

“Except that Algernon is dead,” said Youngster.

During this increasingly scattered dialogue, Garth Wright did not move an inch, did not so much as twitch his mobile fingers or blink his eyes.  Then, abruptly, he started.  “We’d better go in to supper,” he said, “or my dear wife will have my head.  She doesn’t like it when I’m late.  Come in and join us.”

“Yes,” said Youngster, and it seemed to Stephen that he was blinking back tears.  Stephen wondered if he should offer him a handkerchief or pretend he didn’t notice.  He picked the latter.

It was strange, but Stephen had always thought of Youngster as fairly imperturbable.  Youngster, who had unflinchingly snuck into the dungeons of the Fairy Queen to rescue one companion and dragged a bedazzled enchanter out of Faerie and fought the Blue Lady.  In the past few months, he had almost forgotten the reason for Youngster’s appellation—and that he was, after all, still very young, more than a decade Stephen’s junior.

“You eat normal food, I hope,” Betsy Wright said to Stephen.  “I’ve never served an enchanter before.  Potatoes?”

“Yes, please,” said Stephen, and watched her pile potatoes, beef, carrots, and rolls onto his plate.  “This looks absolutely delicious—and smells it, too.”

Betsy laughed.  “You can come again,” she told him.  Then her smile faded.  It could not have lasted longer, with the weight upon her mind.

The Wrights began the meal in silence and, to Stephen’s surprise, it was Garth who broke it.

“Did my son die well?” he asked, his voice low and somber and direct.  He looked at Stephen as he spoke, as if he couldn’t trust Youngster to tell the truth—or couldn’t bear to ask one son about the death of the other.

“As well as anyone can,” said Stephen.  “He was fighting a terrible monster, one that would have destroyed the company, were it not for the warning your son gave us.  I have not seen such bravery and determination before or since.  The Joll—our leader, Prince Wilfred, led us to fight a monster called the Beast of Quag, a terrible foe who had destroyed many and many a village—”

“Yes; I’ve heard of the Beast.”

“It’s dead now, anyway; it’s been dead since January.  In any case, Algernon took terrible injury during that fight, as he was attacked unawares by the great and terrible splinterworm, which destroyed his defenses and at last killed him.  His death was a heavy blow, but you can be assured, at least, that it was swift and painless.”

Garth nodded.  “Thank you for telling me,” he said, “and telling me so delicately.  Now try again, without all the lies.”

Youngster sighed.  “He can always tell,” he informed Stephen.  “He only acts like a buffoon when excited.”  Turning to his father, he explained, “Algernon was watching the horses while we fought the Beast of Quag—which Twitch eventually killed.  Stephen somehow enchanted the snow to superheat it, the Twitch ducked under its defenses and stabbed its heart.  When we returned to Tin—to Algernon, he was scratching and scratching at his hand.  We didn’t find out what was happening to him until after he was already dead.  Letitia told us—she was a witch and a traitor, but she’s dead now.  She said he was infected with a splinterworm that ate under his skin until it reached his heart and killed him.  Stump was infected next, but Letitia cut off his hand before the splinterworm spread.”

“So my version was broadly true,” Stephen muttered.  “True in essence.”

Betsy gave a little sob, then stuffed a hand over her mouth.  “Excuse me,” she managed, “but I must go check the pudding.”  She hurried out of the room.

“Your son was a fine man,” Stephen gravely informed Garth.  “I feel honored to have known him.”

“Yes, everyone liked him,” said Garth.  “Excuse me; I must see to my wife.  Please keep eating.”

“Do you think I should—” Youngster began.

“No, stay here.  Your presence would only upset her more.”  Garth stood and followed his wife into the kitchen.

“That could have gone better,” said Youngster.  “I think maybe I—no, excuse me.”  He rose swiftly and left the room, in the opposite direction from his parents.

Stephen sat alone at the dining table, wondering if he should leave.

“After I finish my supper,” he told himself firmly.  “I don’t know when I’ll get the next one, and there’s no benefit in wasting good food—or in going hungry.”

In the court of the human king

At Youngster’s insistence, Stephen spent the night in Tinkerfingers’s old room and in the morning they left to visit the castle.

The king’s castle was, technically, not a castle at all.  It had a foundation of stone and an artistic turret or two, but for the most part it stood indistinguishable from the dozen or so other large, expensive houses scattered throughout this rich area of the capital.  Stephen never would have found it on his own, but Youngster’s steps
didn’t falter as he wove down streets, around stalls, and through abrupt alleyways.

“I could find the castle in my sleep,” he told Stephen, “and once did.  I used to sleepwalk, when I was a child.  Tinkerfingers would have to come running after me.  We shared a room until I was about twelve, and he’d tie a string connecting our wrists, so he could catch me leaving.”

Stephen accepted this new snippet of information with a slight smile and inclination of his head.  The sheer domesticity and intense emotions of the Wrights had staggered him.  Yet after his vile news concerning Tinkerfingers, the Wrights had continued to welcome him into their home and ply him with food and beg for the story of their travels.  It was all so . . . overwhelming.

“What about you, then?” Youngster was asking.

“What?”

“You’ve been telling me that you were born to ordinary parents and were given an ordinary name, and I think you must have mentioned siblings once.  So where are you from?”

“Oh—here and there.  I haven’t been back in years.”

“Didn’t you get along with them?”

“For the most part.  But my parents were—are, I guess—extremely respectable people,” Stephen replied carefully.  “They did not approve of magic, and, see, there’s no minimum age for a traveling enchanter.”

“So you just left?”

“Don’t sound so appalled.”

“You did just leave!”

“I hardly see how it matters.”

“Matters!”

“Indeed.  Where, exactly, are we going?  Tradesman’s entrance?”

“Oh, right—just here.  They know me.”  Youngster indicated their destination and led the rest of the way to a small back wooden door.  He rapped brusquely on it, and was met by a sharply dressed guard.  “Hello, Hedrick, remember me?  Martin Wright, Algernon’s brother.”

The guard squinted at him.  Slowly recognition and astonishment crept into his eyes.  “You went off with Prince Wilfred all those months ago!  What happened to you—you look like you dove into a pool of razors!”

“Glass, actually,” said Youngster.  “It’s a long story . . . and one I should tell to the king first.  Oh, and this is the enchanter who traveled with the company—the prince picked him up in a town.  He was there, too.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the guard, eying Stephen dubiously.  “You jump into a vat of glass, too, or is it just your wickedness catching up to you?”

“Something like that,” said Stephen. 

The guard called another guard who escorted them inside and handed them off to a servant who led them to a waiting room.  They weren’t kept waiting long; apparently, the king was eager to see them, for not twenty minutes passed before they were being ushered into yet another room, this one larger and grander and—well—kinglier.  It was in this room that Stephen saw King Erich for the first time.

The king was not what Stephen had expected, from his experience with the Jolly Executioner.  Oh, his looks weren’t terribly different: he was sturdily built and obviously strong, even under his stately robes, and held himself straight, but he felt different . . . at least, until Stephen turned his head sideways and imagined him wearing the hood—ah, yes, there it was.

“You’re the lock pick’s younger brother,” said the king, when the basic formalities had been observed.  “Your brother saved many a noble from the embarrassment of being locked out of his room and recovered valuable artifacts from locked containers.  He was a useful man to have about; his replacement isn’t nearly as efficient.”

“I thank you,” Youngster replied formally, “and am sad to report news of my brother’s death . . . and the death of your son Prince Wilfred, and the deaths of every other member of Prince Wilfred’s company, save myself and this enchanter who joined us on the road.”

“Yes,” the king agreed mildly. “We have received news of our son’s death, and a report as to his cause of death.  But we should like to hear the details from your lips, that we might compare the two.  Tell us: how did our son die?”

“At the hand of the Fairy Queen,” said Youngster.

“Elucidate.”

“In a nutshell,” said Stephen, “Prince Wilfred took an axe of pure iron and traveled up to Faerie with the express purpose of assassinating the Fairy Queen.  Since iron is illegal in Faerie—as, by the way, is trying to kill the queen—the Fairy Queen judged him guilty and proclaimed Prince Wilfred’s punishment death.  When Prince Wilfred drew his axe to slay her, the Fairy Queen froze him with a word then touched one finger to his forehead.  When she touched him, he fell down dead.”

Youngster shot him a warning glance, which Stephen interpreted as, Try to be a little more diplomatic!  The king’s son is dead and you sound like you don’t care . . . which you probably don’t, because the Jolly Executioner was a lunatic, but you could pretend!

King Erich nodded thoughtfully.  “Your story correlates exactly with the one we have already received, and we give you our thanks—both in words now, and in the monetary recompense we had promised.”

“Are you going to declare war on Faerie?” Youngster asked.

“War?  Certainly not!  You shock us with your assumptions!  You have been traveling in the company of our son too long; he was a foolish young man determined on a foolish venture for which I certainly did not give him leave, but what is done is done.  I neither blame nor argue with the Fairy Queen’s judgment and punishment; they were just, and she may do what she likes in her own land . . . and we might have done the same.  In any case, she has already offered to make reparations.  These are her ambassadors.”  The king motioned with one hand, and Stephen suddenly realized they were not alone in that room.

Not twenty feet away, stock still against a finely woven tapestry, stood three fairies.  Two were male, one female, and Stephen recognized all three from his time in Faerie.  They met his eyes evenly with their own, inhuman gaze, and neither blinked nor showed sign of recognition.  When the king indicated them, all three stepped forward, gracious and beautiful.  Tears leapt to Stephen’s eyes, as he realized how ugly, how hideously disfigured and unworthy, he and Youngster must look beside this creatures.

How he hated glamours.

“The enchanter and the child are correct,” said one of the fairies, the female.  “We are pleased to hear that their account has not been skewed by hatred and pride, as the accounts of humans are wont to be.”

“Will you accept our offer of reparation for the death of Prince Wilfred?” one of the male fairies asked.  “Will you deny any charge of hostility between our two lands, and continue in the blessed peace we have enjoyed these thousand years?”

“I will,” the king agreed, smiling.  “I’m pleased that we were able to come to this mutually beneficial conclusion.”

Politics, thought Stephen in disgust.  The king sends his son off to kill the Fairy Queen then, when he fails, denies the whole thing and plays nice so he can get concessions.

“Aren’t you angry about your son’s death?” Youngster demanded.  “Their queen killed him—and she sent monsters after us!  And Craggy and all the rest of the company are dead!”

“Our son’s actions were regrettable,” King Erich said smoothly, “and we find it more regrettable still that so many fine men were injured by his injudicious actions—including your lock pick brother.  But as we said, we shall reward you for your service to our son despite his uncalled for actions, and we shall reward you further for bringing us your valuable news; you will replace your brother in our service.  As for your continued safety, you are back in Locklost, now, and peace reigns between Locklost and Faerie; the excellent Fairy Queen would not be so rash as to attack a citizen of Locklost within Locklost itself; you are safe.”

“But you hate magic, and you hate fairies—I know you do!  And you’re the one who ordered—”

“Hold your tongue or lose it,” the king snapped, and went back to making deals and flowery talk with the fairies.

“He’s bedazzled,” Youngster whispered urgently to Stephen, “or he’s succumbed to their glamour.”

“I don’t think he is.”

“Why else would he be acting like this?  Faerie’s eating up Locklost miles at a time, the Fairy Queen murdered his son, and now all he cares about is making reparations?  I don’t think so!”

“I think it’s more complicated than that.”

“Not for long,” Youngster said grimly, whipping one of Stephen’s manacles from his pocket.  It fell open, unlocked.  “Watch.”

“No—”

But it was too late.  Before Stephen could stop him, Youngster leapt forward and snapped the manacle shut around the king’s wrist.

The king roared in outrage, pushing him away.  “How dare you touch us!” he bellowed.  “How dare you lay hands upon your king?  Guards!  Guards!”

“No, no; it’s all right,” Youngster soothed him.  “Look at that manacle: it’s not meant as an insult or to restrain you—it has special properties.  It’s made of silver and iron, and should stop any magic.  The fairies had you trapped in a bedazzlement; that’s why you were going along with them.  It’s their glamour, you see; it lowers your defenses so they can—”

“Bedazzlement!  Glamour!  Fool—we are under no fairy magic.”  The king rose in sudden anger, and raised his hands as if to call again for his guards—then stopped, motioned the guards back, and let out a great guffaw.

Youngster gaped, stunned, not understanding.

“Martin Wright,” Stephen told him in an undertone.  “You are a fool.  Now keep your mouth shut!  Your parents made me swear to protect you, and protecting you I am—from yourself!  I’ll explain later.”

“From myself!  Look—the entire court’s gone mad!”

“Maybe, maybe not—but the king is still the king.”

“Yes,” said the king, “We are.”  He was not laughing now, but looking steadily at Youngster, and holding forward his manacled wrists.  Youngster approached slowly, cautiously, withdrawing a long wire from his pocket, and picked the lock.  The manacle fell to the ground with a heavy clunk, but no one bent to pick it up. 

Youngster bowed and stepped away.

The king looked at him for a long time without a word.  At last, he spoke, “Your loyalty is admirable, even if your zeal is misplaced.  Go now, but consider our offer—replace your brother.  We could use someone of your talents.  Go!”

Bowing, silent, fairy eyes watching them, Stephen and Youngster retreated from the room and then from the king’s house.  On the way out a messenger met them and presented each with a small purse—payment for services rendered, as promised by the Jolly Executioner.  Each accepted his share with thanks and departed quickly.

As they walked through the streets, back in the direction of the Wright home, Youngster spoke.  “He was not as I remembered,” he said.

“He offered you your job, though,” replied Stephen.  “Will you take it?”

Youngster hesitated.  “I don’t know.  Maybe.  For now, at least, until I find other work.  I shall have to ask my parents.  You can come back with me, if you like—the offer’s still open.”

Stephen shook his head.  “I am a traveling enchanter.  I will do what I have always done,” he said, “although not perhaps as I have always done it.”