Her Majesty's Wizard #1 (4 page)

   Astaulf froze, staring at the sorcerer, scandalized. Malingo smiled back urbanely.

   Matt realized, dimly, that his appearance had triggered a hidden, building conflict into an open explosion.

   Astaulf bellowed fury and yanked out a sword built on the scale of a snowplow. He swung it up above his head as Malingo's finger stabbed out, and the sorcerer rattled off a rhyme in the arcane tongue. The sword squirmed and writhed as Astaulf swung it down; then it looped its head back, jaws gaping wide for Astaulf's face. The king froze in horror, staring at the python; then he threw it at Malingo, swearing, "Take your snake, toad! To me, men!" He leaped at Malingo, cable-fingers clawing for his throat. "Aid me, foreigner! Bring down this foul sorcerer, and all his wealth and power shall be yours!" His fingers closed around Malingo's neck like the jaws of a pipe-cutter; he yanked the sorcerer off his feet and held him high, shaking him and tightening his grip. "Aid me now, I say! Black sorcerer though he is, he can't withstand the two of us! Counter his spells, and I will kill him!"

   Matt's eyes flicked from one to the other, and he decided on the old Army rule: Never volunteer.

   Malingo might have been getting red in the face, but his hands were weaving around Astaulf's arm in an intricate pattern, and he was mouthing silent syllables. Only Matt noticed that the python at the sorcerer's feet was stretching out and thickening, while three of the guards clustered around, trying to grasp the sorcerer's arms, to hold him still. Then a boa constrictor reared itself up, knocking Astaulf's guards aside as it flexed itself and threw a loop around the king's neck.

   Astaulf's eyes bulged in horror; a choking groan leaped from his mouth. Malingo twisted in his hands and jumped free as the king clutched at the living hawser around his neck. Malingo's fingers darted out at the guards, his tongue rattling in the strange language-and their skin began to crack and peel, opening into running sores. They saw the flesh turn dark and gangrenous on their hands and screamed.

   But Malingo didn't stay to look; he whirled back to the strangling king and stalked toward him with his fingers weaving, voice rising high and shrill. Then his hands yanked out stiffly as if snapping a thread taut-and the king was gone!

   Malingo looked slowly down at the floor. So did Matt-and there, at the sorcerer's feet, sat a flabby and leprous toad, its mottled skin peeling.

   It blinked, looking dazedly around-and saw the snake.

   The boa's head swung slowly toward it-and froze, gaze riveted on the toad. Then, slowly, the head lifted, and the jaws gaped wide.

   The toad gave a sort of groaning belch and turned, trying to hop away; but its hops were short and feeble. It was definitely not well.

   The sorcerer's foot came down.

   Not all the way-just enough to hold the toad in place. It squirmed under his foot, still trying to get away from the snake; but Malingo flung up a hand, and the snake's eyes flicked to him, wary and watchful. The sorcerer chanted a phrase and snapped his hand down, pointing at the snake. It never moved; its eyes and skin slowly dulled while its body seemed to flatten; and a giant's broadsword lay across the chamber floor, its blade curved, its pommel hooked.

   A despairing, rattling groan sounded from the side of the chamber. Matt looked over against the wall, then yanked his eyes away again, the nausea rising in his throat. He'd seen a heap of rotting garbage among rags that once had been soldiers' liveries. Stench filled the chamber from what was left of the three guards who had been loyal to Astaulf. Matt swallowed heavily and mumbled his anti-nausea spell again.

   The other guards were staring at the pile of carrion. It was very quiet, suddenly.

   "Yes," Malingo said into the silence, "that is the fate of fools. And any man's a fool who gives his loyalty to princes when a sorcerer stands near. Remember, worthy guardsmen, and tell your mates; for your prudence saved your lives today-and may again."

   He fell silent, his gaze holding level on them as, one by one, they wrenched their eyes away from the heap and up to meet the sorcerer's gaze-then quickly away again.

   The sorcerer nodded slowly. "Enough. You've seen and will remember. Begone. "

   They turned to the door, managing to keep from running; but the last one out hesitated and looked back. "Lord Sorcerer-the King ... "

   "What said I of him who gives his loyalty to princes?" the sorcerer demanded; and the soldier shuddered. The latch clicked shut behind him.

   Malingo stood, still and quiet, in the rays of afternoon sun that streamed in through the window, one hand half-raised, one foot still upon the toad.

   Then slowly he lifted the foot away and stared down at the toad. "So, your Majesty." He made the title an insult. "Your pride had grown too large. Will this remind you of the true size of your soul?"

   The toad blinked and stared up at him, terrified.

   Malingo nodded slowly. "I think it will. But never, Astaulf, should you have dared to call me toad."

   He straightened slowly and walked around the amphibian, gazing down his nose at it. It sat frozen, but its eyes followed his movements.

   "No," the sorcerer said with infinite regret, "I must let you live."

   The toad seemed to sink in upon itself with trembling relief.

   Malingo nodded. "Aye; it was indeed a close escape, Astaulf For a moment, hot blood nearly overcame cold sense; for a moment,

   I almost let myself tread down. But it would be so tedious, seeking out another nobleman as foolish and covetous as yourself! And I, of course, must have a nobleman. Ah, the cursed set of these foolish aristocrats' minds that must needs see some trace of royal' blood in him who sits upon the throne! As if none without relation to the reigning king could govern. Still and all, these noblemen must see such blood in him who'd claim the crown; for without it, they all would rise as rebels. Be thankful for your birth into a minor noble house-for it's all that saves you now."

   Matt noticed that the sorcerer didn't say anything about his own birth. Obviously, he'd been born a commoner.

   Malingo's teeth flashed in a grin. "Nor need I have concern that you'd seek my death again. Need I, Astaulf ?" He waited, head cocked to the side. The toad shivered. Malingo laughed. "Nay, I thought not. For you know you could not hold your new-won throne against the Western barons without my power to aid you. Sorcery gained your throne, so only sorcery can hold it. Indeed, you only dared challenge me today because there's a new sorcerer here, and you thought he'd league against me. Foolish baron! You should have known no power in the land could equal mine!"

   That rankled; Matt hadn't exactly thought of it as a matter of daring. Just common sense-don't choose sides until you have to.

   Then he caught the baleful glare from the toad's eye and realized he'd had to.

   So did Malingo. "No, you may not touch him, Astaulf! Not, at least, till I have done with him." He nodded judiciously. "Yes, I think you're schooled. I may restore you to your place; you'll not soon challenge me again." He stepped back, hands waving an unseen symbol in the air, chanting in the arcane tongue-a slow, rising chant that built to a peak as his hands flourished and snapped still.

   The toad's form began to blur and waver, a cloud of vapor gathered around it, hiding it completely. The cloud grew and grew, like a gathering storm; then it began to sink in on itself, condensing, shrinking, and Astaulf stood rigid before the sorcerer. Then he sagged and staggered over to lean against the wall, eyes closed, face ashen and glistening with sweat, breathing in long, shuddering gasps.

   Malingo stood back and nodded in approval. "Yes, you've learned. Do not forget this, Astaulf. Next time I'll change you to the swine you are and dine upon your hams."

   The king's eyes flickered open, then squeezed shut again.

   The sorcerer's lips twitched into a sneer. "Ah, what a man he is! What commanding and kingly presence! But now, begone -- I wish to have some words of my own with this new sorcerer. Begone, I say!" He stepped around behind the king, setting his palm between Astaulf's shoulder blades, and shoved. The king lurched toward the door, fumbling for the latch. He managed to get it open and stumbled out.

   Malingo stood looking after him, shaking his head slowly, lip curling. Then he stilled and slowly turned toward Matt.

   Matt fought the impulse to shrink back against the wall. He lifted his chin, but decided not to try to get to his feet.

   The sorcerer nodded approvingly. "You showed wisdom, trickster. Or did you know you could not match me?"

   "Uh-yeah."

   Malingo raised an eyebrow. "I sense some hesitation. Could you believe you do have power to match my own?"

   "Uh ... well..."

   The sorcerer snapped a forefinger out at him, chanting a quick, rhymed phrase.

   Matt felt a sudden overpowering compulsion to lick the sorcerer's boots. His body started to bend forward of its own accord, even while every cell in his brain screamed outrage. His stomach knotted with sudden, hot anger, and he rapped out:

   "I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself."

   It was blank verse, not rhymed, which may have been why it didn't work completely; but the compulsion dwindled. Matt shoved it to the back of his mind and straightened, even managing to give the sorcerer a defiant glare.

   Malingo's eyebrows twitched upward. "Well, so! Ah, let's try sterner measures." He pulled a curving dagger from his sleeve and tossed it to the floor near Matt's knee, murmuring a rhyme. Total despair suddenly dragged at Matt, worse than any depression he'd ever felt-ten times worse. The room seemed to darken about him with a miasma of hopelessness. It was all a farce, this game of rhymes and gestures-this whole game of life, for that matter. Totally absurd, totally meaningless. Why bother even trying to fight back?

   His eye fell on the dagger. His hand crept out toward it. To take it up, plunge it into his chest, be done with it all! Ah, the sweetness of nothingness!

   Foul! shrieked the skeptic's voice at the back of his mind. He's hexed you, fool!

   Matt paused, startled at the thought. Then his hand crept out toward the knife again of its own accord. He was hexed-and stubborn pride dug its heels in and balked, meaningless or not. Matt grabbed for Hamlet's lines:

   "For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action."

   The depression remained-after all, Hamlet wasn't exactly exuberant till the end of the play, when he knew he was dying, but Matt's hand stopped, then began to move back to his side. It would be pretty senseless to kill himself, when the only thing he was sure of was that he existed.

   Malingo's frown deepened. He made a circular motion, palm out, as if he were wiping a slate. Depression snapped away from Matt, almost rocking him with the reaction. He was just pulling his wits together when Malingo's finger stabbed out again, and his arcane drone buzzed.

   Matt suddenly felt something was missing. Inside! That sinking feeling in his stomach could only be explained by his stomach sinking. Could his intestines have gone on vacation? No, surely not! This sorcerer couldn't have gone for the cheap joke, the literal interpretation of the standard adjective for cowards.

   He had.

   Matt had a vision of his stomach acids and by-products raining down unfiltered onto his kidneys. Whatever he was going to do, he'd better do it fast; peritonitis might not be possible without an appendix to burst, but he was certainly going to have a close equivalent.

   Malingo watched him, grinning.

   Dull anger burned-or was it stomach acid? Either way, Matt set his jaw and dug back through twenty years of education for an appropriate phrase. He could think of a few verses for pulling intestines out, but it never seemed to have occurred to any poet to celebrate the reverse- In desperation, he tried his own:

   "No law can pull apart Inherited entail. Heredity did start My very own entrail. Return to me, my own, By gene and chromosome!"

   It was lousy doggerel, but it worked. Matt had a sudden sense of fulfillment. He sighed with relief.

   Malingo's face wiped clean of all expression.

   Matt was suddenly alert. He had to move first, before the sorcerer made another try. Well, he'd just been thinking of augury. He declaimed,

   "What say the augurers? Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within- the beast."

   Malingo suddenly looked decidedly disconcerted. He clapped a hand to his chest, swallowed heavily, muttered a quick incantation, and traced a symbol over his breastbone, then relaxed with a heavy sigh. Matt felt a surprising surge of relief, too-he'd never really fancied himself a murderer.

   Malingo's lips puckered in a frown. He stroked his beard, eyeing Matt as if he were speculating on how many slices of fish bait he could cut from his liver.