Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Sorceress (2 page)

“Why not?”

“There are a lot of people who know me at
the theater... and they know that no good Buxton, and they might
see that we are after him and give him a warning. He might skip
town and we would have to search the entire country of Lyrria for
him.”

“That's a good point,” she agreed. “Where
shall we look for him?”

“I have a few spots in mind,” I lied. “Why
don't you tell me what he has done to anger you so?”

“Have you not seen the travesty he calls a
play?”

“I thought it quite a fine play,” I said,
truthfully.

“He maligned my character.”

“Perhaps the author was misguided by some
incorrect information,” I suggested. “It is no doubt misinformation
that you once tried to usurp the throne of the King of
Aerithraine.”

“No,” she admitted. “That part was
true.”

“Well, surely you did not attempt to
ensorcel the King.”

“That part was true as well,” she said.

“Mayhaps you did not really consort with a
dragon?”

“No. That is not the part that was
wrong.”

“Then perhaps you could enlighten me as to
exactly what element of the play brought forth your ire, which is
to say, made you unhappy.”

“You might note that the playwright’s deus
ex machina involves me accidentally falling victim to my own
magic.”

“God in the machine?”

“The machination of the gods—it is how poor
story tellers fix holes in their plotlines.”

“I thought that bit where you ensorcelled
yourself was rather funny.”

“Funny at my expense. That would never
happen.”

“And I would hardly call it a deus ex
machinegun…”

“Deus ex machina.”

“I don’t think it qualifies at all,” said I.
“It’s not as though that couldn’t happen…”

“It couldn’t happen.”

“It’s within the realm of possibility…”

“It is impossible.”

“I don’t think we have the same definition
of ‘impossible’.”

“Not possible; unable to exist, happen, or
be,” she said. “Unable to be done, performed, effected, etc.”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “That is the definition
I usually use.”

“Not to be done or endured with any degree
of reason or propriety.”

“Well, not quite to the point, but…”

“Utterly impracticable, totally unsuitable,
difficult, or objectionable.”

“I suppose that last part fits your point of
view better than mine,” said I. “I still would not go so far as to
refer to the plot’s resolution as a deus ex machina…”

She glared at me.

“If that is not what happened, then what was
it that alerted the King to your plan to usurp him?”

“I had my spies, but the church had its
spies as well, and they preferred Justin’s imperfect rule to
mine.”

“I suppose there is just no pleasing some
people,” said I.

“I grow weary,” said Myolaena Maetar with a
sigh, after we had left the fourth or fifth tavern. “I suppose I
shall just kill you and blow up the playhouse.”

“Blow up the playhouse!” I cried. “You can’t
do that!”

“I can do that.”

“Well, you shouldn’t…”

“Why not?”

“Eaglethorpe Buxton, which is to say me… I
mean my friend, put his life into that play. Kill him if you must,
but the play must continue. The play is the thing.”

“What thing?”

“Just the thing.” I suddenly spotted the
sign above the door of the Fairy Font. “And this is just the
place.”

“What kind of place is it?” she asked.

“It’s just the kind of place that I… that
Eaglethorpe Buxton would visit.

Jumping ahead of the sorceress, I opened the
tavern door and allowed her to enter, then followed. Despite the
hour, now closer to morning than night, the Font was full of
customers—mostly sailors. As I believe I mentioned before, the
Fairy Font is known for its nightlife, especially among the rougher
crowd. Pipe smoke hung in the air like fragrant fog and drinks were
flowing freely.

“Six crowns cover charge,” said the
heavily-muscled man just inside the door.

“I’m with her,” said I.

Myolaena threw a small pouch of coins at
him. We waded through the sea of humanity and dwarfanity and
elfanity and I think one or two trollanity and found an unoccupied
table with two stools, where we sat down. The patrons of the
establishment, already loud and raucous, began chanting something
and pounding their fists on the table.

“This is most odd,” said the sorceress.
“They have their drinks. What else do they want?”

“Entertainment,” said I.

“We are not going to have to sit through
another play, are we?” She rolled her eyes.

As if in answer, directly above our heads
and directly above each of the tables in The Fairy Font, which is
to say all over the taproom, small doors opened in the ceiling and
little platforms were lowered on chains. When the platforms had
reached the tabletops, knocking over quite a few tankards of ale is
they did, we could see that upon each was a small basin filled with
dark, rich, mud. Sitting on either side of the basin of mud was the
tiny form of a fairy, wearing a teeny little robe cut open in the
back to allow her wings to stick out.

The round basin of mud reminded me of the
mud pies that we used to make as children. My sister Celia and my
cousins Gervil, Tuki, and Geneva used to play on the front step of
our house, which is to say Cor Cottage just outside Dewberry Hills.
Celia was a master piesmith, at least of the mud variety.
Interestingly enough, when she grew up, her pies at best could be
considered mediocre. Tuki could make quite a fine pie as an
adult—all the more strange as her childhood mud pies were the
antithesis of Celias, which is to say that they were no good at
all. Geneva’s mud pies were better than Tuki’s but not as good as
Celia’s, and since she died as a child, no one can tell if she
would have grown to be a decent piesmith or not. Gervil didn’t make
pies, though he did force me to eat more than a few.

“What are you thinking about?” asked
Myolaena Maetar.

“Pies.”

“Well stop it. We’re here to find
Buxton.”

“And now the moment you’ve been awaitin’”
said an unseen announcer. “Fairy mud-wrestling!”

A great cheer filled the room, but then all
grew quiet as the audience watched the pair of fairies on each
table disrobe.

“I’m Taffy,” said the six inch tall
red-head, as she carefully pulled the robe over her gossamer
wings.

“I’m Mustard Seed,” said the other
fairy.

“I’m enchanted,” said I.

“I’m going to vomit,” said Myolaena.

The two fairies waded out into the mud,
which to them was about knee-high, where they wasted no time.
Mustard Seed jumped on Taffy, knocking her down and coating them
both in the ooze. Taffy grabbed Mustard Seed’s hair and they both
rolled across the bowl, squealing in their tiny little voices.

“Come along. We’re leaving,” said the
sorceress.

“You don’t like the show?” I was frankly
incredulous.

“You hussy!” shouted Mustard Seed, though I
don’t know if she was speaking to Myolaena or to Taffy.

“Come.”

“But they’re so cute and wee.”

“Come now!”

“I must visit the little warrior’s room
first,” said I.

“Fine,” she said. “I will be waiting
outside.”

I was loath to leave, but what was I to do.
I stepped out back to, um… wash my hands. Then I headed back
through the taproom for the front door, stopping just a moment to
help Taffy, who was floating face down in the mud, while Mustard
Seed was biting her on the foot. When I exited the tavern, I found
the sorceress standing with a man. I didn’t recognize him until I
got close—it was Ellwood Cyrene.

“Ellwood Cyrene,” I cried, so glad to see my
old friend that I momentarily forgot my ruse. “Um, is me, which is
to say that I am Ellwood Cyrene.”

“Yes,” said Ellwood stiffly. “He is Ellwood
Cyrene. And I am the… ahem… great story-teller Eaglethorpe
Buxton.”

“Story-teller adventurer,” I offered.

“Story-teller adventurer.”

“Great story-teller adventurer,” I
added.

“I said great,” said Ellwood.

“You said great the first time, but you
didn’t say great the second time.”

“I am the great, the marvelous, the
wonderful adventurer and story-teller Eaglethorpe…”

“And hero,” said I.

“Never mind,” said Ellwood. “He is
Eaglethorpe Buxton. Go ahead and kill him. I no longer care.”

“Foolish children you are,” said Myolaena,
her face taking on a snarl which quite detracted from the, well, if
not beauty, then certainly the attractiveness that I had felt for
her before. “Do you think for one moment that I could not tell who
this idiot was?”

“Idiot is not quite the word you are looking
for,” said I. “Perhaps bard or wordsmith might be a better
fit.”

“Silence! I know who the true Eagle-brained
Buffoon is.” She turned to Ellwood Cyrene. “Just as I know who you
are. You have your father’s eyes.”

“I met his father once and I don’t think he
looked anything like him,” I opined. “In fact, I wouldn’t be
surprised if he was adopted.”

“That is because you are an idiot,” hissed
the sorceress. “What do you know of it? What do you know of
anything? You write a play about the royal family of Aerithraine
and you wouldn’t know the Queen if she fell on you!”

“That is not so,” said I. “The Queen and I
are quite close. I once spent a fortnight in her company.”

A smirking noise came from my friend, which
he, somewhat less than valiantly, tried to suppress.

“You find this funny?” asked Myolaena.

“Well, yes,” said Ellwood. “You see, he
actually did spend a fortnight in the company of the Queen. It was
her infantry company, and he served in it for a whole two weeks
before he was drummed out for failure to carry out his duty.”

“Oh varlet, villain, and false friend!” said
I.

“I did not hear “liar” amongst those names,”
quoth he.

“Enough of this,” snarled Myolaena.

“Yes, enough of this,” said Ellwood. “Let
this foolish hack go on his way and you and I will find some quiet
place to quench your fire.”

“Campfire?” I asked.

“The fires of passion!” hissed the
sorceress.

She did not have the passionate look on her
face that I had expected. In fact her expression was nothing like
it had been when we had spoken before, when she thought I was
Ellwood Cyrene. But at last she gave a curt nod.

“We shall go,” she said. “But Eaglethorpe
Buxton shall not go his way unscathed.”

And before either Ellwood or I could do
anything, she aimed her wand at me and I was engulfed in a purple
light. I felt myself shrinking and had just enough awareness left
to realize that I had been turned into a toad.

It is true that toads do not have much of
interest in their lives. They chiefly go about their business
eating bugs and other small creepy-crawlies and attempting to not
get eaten themselves by cats. I honestly don’t remember too much
about it, no doubt a result of my toad brain having been somewhat
smaller than the average pea. It did feel like quite a long time
had passed. I am not sure how long toads live, but I would guess
that it is somewhere in the neighborhood of a year or two and as I
was a toad for at least a week, I must have aged at least seven
years. The next thing I truly remember was waking in a hard bed in
a room that was obviously not in one of the better inns in town,
with Ellwood Cyrene leaning over me.

“Oh varlet, villain, and false friend,” I
said, and felt my lips crack as my swollen tongue moved around to
form the words.

“Do not speak Eaglethorpe,” said Ellwood,
pressing the brim of a glass of cold water to my lips. “You must
know that I love you.”

“In a very manly way, no doubt,” I
croaked.

“Yes. Very manly indeed.”

He took a clean white cloth and dipped it in
the water, using it to bathe my brow.

“I only belittled you because I thought that
it might make the sorceress let you go. You know I have the highest
respect for you.”

“And my storytelling?”

“And your storytelling.”

“And my heroic adventuring?”

“Heavens above Eaglethorpe. If I did not
love you so much, I would hate your guts.”

“What happened anyway?”

“She turned you into a toad, a quite ugly
one at that. It took me all of a week to locate you and three bags
of silver to get an apothecary who was willing and able turn you
back into yourself.”

“What happened to you?”

“Oh I managed to escape her after a few
hours.”

“A few hours?”

“Yes.”

“A few hours?”

“Yes, a few hours.”

“A few hours?”

“Yes, a few hours. Did you damage your brain
while you were a toad?”

“So you were with her for a few hours?”

“I believe we have established that.”

“So… she made you do things.”

“What?”

“You spent time with her?”

“A few hours!” Ellwood rolled his eyes in
exasperation.

“She… you know.”

“Know what?”

“She quenched your fire?”

“Campfire?”

“The fire of passion.”

“What? No!” He stood up and began pacing
back and forth across the room. “Well, I’m sure she would have
liked to, but I got away long before that could happen.”

“Why?” I asked.

“What do you mean why?”