The Complete Compleat Enchanter (23 page)

“You might put it that way,” said Shea.

“Riddle me those words, Squire Harold. For ensample—”

Shea interrupted hastily: “Some other time, Miss Belphebe, if you don’t mind. Right now we want to get our bearings. Is this what they call ‘the wood where the Losels breed’?”

“Aye. Some say the enchanters created that gruesome race of monsters to be their cattle.”

Shea asked innocently: “Why, is the place infested with enchanters too?”

“Marry, a mort of ’em. Take care lest you fall into their snares.”

Chalmers broke in: “Ahem . . . could you tell us where there are any—uh—magicians to be found?”

Shea scowled at his partner. Belphebe’s face changed. “Now wherefore would you know such things?”

“We’re trying to rescue somebody we think they have, and we thought if we could—uh—gain the confidence of one—”

“Meseems that is a strange and not well-thought-on plan,” said the girl coolly. “Yet, since you wish, straight on, and I warrant me you’ll find enough of the naughty rogues.” She waved her hand. “And now, good gentles, if you will even pardon me, I must trim the ears from the Losel I slew—”

“You must
what
?” demanded Shea.

“Trim the ears from the Losel. For trophies. Already I have pairs an hundred and twenty and two. Good morrow, gentles.”

###

“That,” said Shea when they were on their way, “is my idea of a real girl. And you had to put her off us by that crack about magicians!”

“Very fine girl, provided she doesn’t put an arrow through you and cut off your ears for trophies. I confess my taste runs to a somewhat more sedentary type of female. I doubt whether I can stand much more excitement of this sort.”

Shea said: “I know how you feel. Traveling through Faerie is just one damned encounter after another.” His two narrow escapes in one day had left Shea feeling like a damp washcloth.

Chalmers mused: “It is logical that it should be so. The
Faerie Queene
indicates that this is a world wherein an endless and largely planless concatenation of encounters are a part of the normal pattern of events—Merciful Heavens, another one! What’s that?”

“That” was a big black leopard which leaped out suddenly into their path. It snarled with the sound of tearing sheet iron. The mounts bucked and started to whirl against the bits.

“Stop, Doc!” yelled Shea, manhandling Adolphus around and reaching behind him for the broadsword. “If you run, it’ll jump you sure!”

He tumbled off, snubbed his reins around a convenient stump, and faced the leopard with the broadsword in one hand and the épée in the other. This was getting to be a worse bore than the Garaden Institute. If I stand my ground, he thought, it probably won’t attack, but if it does—There was a book he had read once—what was its name?—about a Lithuanian who hunted jaguars with a spear. If it springs, impale it with the épée; if it stands off and claws, chop with the broadsword—

The leopard snarled again. It seemed uncertain. Then, to Shea’s astonishment, it swelled and changed into a huge lion. He felt a prick of fear. A man might handle a 150-pound leopard, but a 600-pound lion—not even a mortal stab would keep it from ripping him up, once it got to close quarters. He was in for it—

“Harold!” Chalmers’ voice was not too near. “It’s all right.”

“The hell it’s all right!” thought Shea, holding his ground for want of anything better to do.

The lion did not spring. Instead it grimaced. The fanged mouth became a beak, wings sprouted from its shoulders, and it was a griffin. That, Shea realized, was not kosher; griffins did not—

Chalmers called, closer. “It’s the man we’re looking for.”

Shea relaxed. “Take off the false whiskers, Mr. Magician; we know you,” he said. The griffin began to dwindle and dissolve. Shea turned to Chalmers, who was struggling with a patently balky Gustavus. “Didn’t you say something about ‘when away his regiment ran, his place was in the fore, oh—’ ”

“I couldn’t control this confounded beast. And it’s
at
the fore, oh, not
in.
How do you do, sir?” This was to the ex-griffin, which had become a stout, dark, bald man, who stood glowering at them, fists on hips.

“I do right well,” said the man. “What do you two here? Eh? Seek trouble? You’ve come to the right market.”

Shea grinned. “In a way, I suppose we are, if you call yourself trouble.”

“Ho, you seek my professional service! I warn you I handle no minor matters, like turning cows sour or the manufacture of love philters. That’s witch-wife work. I’m a master magician.”

“Then we’re delighted—”

“Ahem,” said Chalmers. “Excuse me, Harold. I should like to explain to the gentleman that our interest is professional, looking to an exchange of information that might be mutually profitable.”

“Ho!” cried the enchanter. “You two claim to be magicians? How do I know you speak sooth? Tell me that, eh?”

“Well . . . uh—”

“Work a spell for him, Doc,” said Shea.

“Oh, dear me. I don’t suppose he’d be satisfied with more mice—or cats. All I can think of now is one I prepared for conjuring up a dragon.”

“What the hell, that’s fine! Go ahead with your dragon!”

The magician’s ears caught the last word. “Dragon? D’you think you can really produce a dragon? Let’s see you do it!”

“But won’t it be . . . uh . . . dangerous?” This was Chalmers.

“Have no fear. I’ll get a counterspell ready. Dolon protects you.
The
Dolon.” He strutted.

“Show him, Doc.”

Chalmers, with a look of baffled and apprehensive resignation, began to make a list of the properties needed. A small red salamander was discovered under a stone. Most of the other things they had already, but a snapdragon plant was called for, and there was none in sight. “Conjure one up,” said Shea, coolly. The harassed psychologist looked annoyed. But, with the aid of a roadside weed, he produced a snapdragon plant the size of a tree.
The
Dolon snorted.

Chalmers laid out his properties, lit a fire with flint and steel, and began an incantation:

“By Fafnir and Hydra,

Apophis and Yang:

With the length of Nidhögger,

Tiámat’s sharp fang,

The shape of the lizard,

The strength of the bear,

Thou, scaled like the serpent,

Emerge from your lair!

Steed of Triptolemus,

Beowulf s bane,

Symbol of Uther,

And bringer of rain—”

Shea prudently hitched the animals’ reins around a tree. If the dragon turned out to be winged and hungry—He wished that his damned reckless impulsiveness had not made him force Chalmers’ hand. If the Dolon’s counterspell didn’t work—

The oyster-colored smoke of the fire thickened and darkened. Chalmers bit off his chant in mid-stanza and scrambled back. A reptilian head a yard long was poking toward them out of the smoke.

The head had a scaly neck behind it. Then came a foreleg and another. The dragon seemed to be crawling from nothingness through an orifice somewhere in the smoke, ballooning out as it came. There it was, complete to stinger-tipped tail, gazing at them with yellow cat’s eyes.

Shea breathed, not daring to attract its attention by a movement: “If it starts for us, Doc, you get on Gustavus and I’ll let go the reins.”

Dolon’s face was twisting as though he had swallowed too big a mouthful. The dragon lurched a few steps, not toward them but off at right angles, opened its terrible mouth, gave a whistling
beeep
and began to crop the grass contentedly.

“God bless my soul!” said Chalmers.

“He’d better,” replied Shea. “Look!”

A second draconian head was pushed through the smoke. This one was squirted out in a few seconds. It looked at the three men, then wandered over to a clump of bright-colored flowers, sniffed, and began to eat them. Now a third and a fourth head were already in sight. As fast as the dragons were extruded, more followed them. The field down to the very confines of the trees was crowded with them, new arrivals butting the others to make room or scratching their sides on trees. Shea was counting: “Thirty-three, thirty-four—We better untie the animals and move or we’ll get stepped on. Thirty-six, thirty-seven—”

“Dear me,” remarked Chalmers, fingering his chin, as they backed among the trees. “I rather feared this. The same thing happened with the mice.”

“Fifty-two, fifty-three—” Shea continued. “My God, the country will be overrun with them!”

Dragons had overflowed the field and were lurching through the trees with their ungainly gait, munching everything green in sight, and mooing at each other with the same plaintive beeping sound. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Oh, boy!”

The fire suddenly died, and the cascade of vegetarian dragons ceased. “My God!” said Shea in an awe-struck voice. “One hundred reptilian Ferdinands!”

Dolon’s voice was that of a man shaken to the core. “Forsooth, you do things not by halves. Though I mind me I once succeeded with a bushel measure full of pearls.” Dolon snapped his fingers. “By Ahriman’s toenails, are you not those who even now bested the Blatant Beast?”

“That’s us,” said Shea. “How did you hear about it?”

“The Beast passed me a few hours ago, and warned me of a prow company. He said he demanded trifle of poesy, as is his custom, and you gave him a lay full of such—ah—spice that even he durst not repeat it for shame. The like had never before happened to him, and he seemed much downcast thereby. But was there not another of you? The Beast mentioned three.”

Chalmers cleared his throat, but Shea quickly answered: “No; he’s got us mixed up with another bunch.”

“ ’Tis a thing conceivable; the Beast is in sooth of the lower orders, and cannot count beyond two.” Dolon shook a finger and said with a slight leer: “Now about these dragons: tell me, fellow magicians, was’t not by error you got eaters of grass? Eh? No secrets in the trade!”

“Ahem. No use taking unnecessary risks,” said Chalmers, still looking a trifle wall-eyed.

“Doubtless,” remarked Dolon with a glance that Shea just barely saw, “you can exorcise them as rapidly.”

“We could,” said Shea, before his companion had a chance to answer. “For the dragon-disappearing spell, though, we need an aneroid combompeter, and we lost ours. Do you have one with you?”

“An . . . ah, certes, an ameroid comphometer. Nay, I fear me not so. Last spring came a black frost that killed all the plants on which ameroid combompeters grow.” He spread his hands regretfully. “However, meseems these dragons will in the long run be a benefit, making rare good sport and food for our friends and servants, the Losels. And now, Sir Magicians whom I have not seen, explain your purpose in Loselwood.”

Chalmers spoke. “Uh . . . we’re looking for a lady named Florimel, and were advised we might find her here. Do you know the young person?”

Dolon chuckled. “The real Florimel or the false?”

“The real or—The one who was at Satyrane’s tournament recently.”

“That would be the false one, made by the Witch of Riphœa. A fair piece of work—though I will say I care not much for these witches. Duessa is the only one who has any standing in the Chapter—And that brings me to remark, magical sirs, are you members of one of the outland Chapters? My memory is practically infallible, and I do not recall having seen you at our meetings.”

Chalmers stammered: “We . . . uh . . . that is . . . can you tell me a little more about this Florimel? The . . . uh . . . false one.”

Dolon waved his hand. “A mere witch’s thing—a creature made of snow, of no special value. You must let me show you the really fine chess player
I
made sometime, or the imps I conjured up to handle my torture work. Really an achievement. Busyrane, our archmagician, doubtless called his false Florimel in for inspection.” He accented the last word and snickered. “But you haven’t answered my question, magical sirs.”

Shea spoke up boldly. “The point is, we’d like to join up with you.”

“You mean you have been working independently and we know it not?” Dolon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Aye; Busyrane opened the Chapter but a twelvemonth ago and you may well have slipped his attention. I trust you have not refused his invitation. Our archimage is not soft or slow with unlicensed magicians. He has a spell that turns ’em into spiders. Witty, is he not, eh?”

“Good gracious!” said Chalmers. “But how does one acquire a license?”

“That fells somewhat on the applicant. Our charter calls for a round twenty-one master magicians, the magic number. Naturally, you behold me in one of the leading masters, whether by ability or seniority. There is also a class of journeymen, who handle the ordinary work, and one of apprentices. Perhaps you have talent enough to be elected to mastership. There are three or four places unfilled, I believe. The next meeting comes in five days, and with my backing your election would be certain.”

Six

Dolon, in the form of a handsome stallion, trotted in front. Shea leaned back in his saddle and, watching the stallion’s ears carefully, murmured: “Doing all right, aren’t we, Doc?”

“I suppose so, but I admit to being somewhat apprehensive as to what will happen if both the Companions and the Chapter of Magicians learn we’ve been cooperating with the other party. This . . . ah . . . playing both ends against the middle may get us in trouble.”

“Maybe,” said Shea. They rode on in silence.

Once a tiger glided out from between the trunks ahead. Gustavus and Adolphus, both rapidly approaching nervous breakdowns, tried to bolt from the trail. Dolon turned himself from a stallion into an immense buffalo. The tiger slunk off, snarling.

The sun was already low when the trail made a right-angled bend and dipped under a bank. A huge oak door was set into the earth. Dolon, again in his natural form, waved a hand, and the door flew open.

“Fear not for the safety of your mounts,” he said. “An invisible wall, which none may penetrate without my let, surrounds this place.”

Shea, dismounting, said: “That ought to be nice for keeping the mosquitoes out.”

Dolon laughed dutifully, then shook his head. “Ah, good ’prentice, how true! Is it not sad that a man of genius must concern himself with petty moils and worries?”

The air was stuffy inside. The first thing Shea saw was a huge pile of dirty dishes. Dolon was evidently not the neat type of bachelor. Beyond was an object that made his scalp prickle. It was the life-sized nude statue of a young man, stiff, at one side of the room, emitting a faint bluish glow. It held aloft a torch, which Dolon set alight.

The enchanter noticed Shea’s glance of inquiry. “A former ’prentice of mine,” he remarked. “I found he was a spy from Queen Gloriana’s court, where a few of these high-born grandees practice a kind of magic they call ‘white.’ So there he stands, with all his sensations alive and the rest of him dead. Eh, Roger?” He pinched the statue playfully and laughed. “I’m really the best humorist in the Chapter when I’m in the mood. Let me show you my collection of Mallamies.”

“What’s a Mallamy?” inquired Chalmers.

Dolon looked at him hard, then decided it was a kind of joke and laughed. He began taking bottles off a shelf and holding them up to the light. Each contained a human figure about an inch tall. “Homunculi from the hand of great mater, Mallamy himself,” he explained. “He specialized in this art, and none other has been able to shrink folk to so small a size. Even I, Dolon, cannot equal his art. This is the finest collection of his figures in existence. It wants only a blond Saracen. Busyrane has one, but he will not yield it, though I have offered him a water fay, which his own collection lacks. He insists that water fays are not permanent, since any accident will bring water in contact with the bottle and they can work a spell of their own and so escape.”

He sighed. “You see how things fall short of perfection even for the greatest of us. But come in, good sirs, and seat yourselves in my cabinet. Only ’ware the cockatrice as you go down this passage.”

“A cockatrice?” said Shea.

“Aye. A rare, priceless idea of Busyrane’s. All masters of the Chapter are supplied with them. They are just outside our inner cabinets and under an enchantment, so they may not look on any member of the Chapter—or his friends. But should any of Gloriana’s people essay to enter, the cockatrice looks on them and they turn to stone.”

Dolon threw open a door and led the way down a dimly lighted passage. Behind bars at one side the beast stalked to and fro with a clatter of its scaly tail. It turned its head this way and that. The stench made Shea want to vomit. Over his shoulder he saw Chalmers’ lips moving. He hoped it was with a protective counterspell, not prayer. Dolon’s voice floated back: “—had to get them after Cambina, one of those ‘white magic’ practitioners, got into Mallamy’s cabinet and drowned him in a pool of alkahest. Thank Lucifer, she married that oaf, Sir Cambell, and marriage cost her some of her powers—”

The door banged behind them. Shea gasped for air as though he had swum up from the bottom of the ocean.

The table was ready and the food—thank Heaven, thought Shea—not too highly spiced. Whittling at a steak, he asked: “What’s this meat? It’s good!”

“Fried Losel,” said the magician calmly.

Shea saw Chalmers halt a mouthful in midair. He felt himself gag momentarily; it was, after all, on the borderline of cannibalism, and after the cockatrice—He forced himself to go on eating. Squeamishness right now was a luxury.

Dolon poured out some wine, sat back, and rather to the travelers’ astonishment produced and lit a clay pipe.

“Aye,” he pronounced, “competition is the curse of our business. One playing against another, and those curst Companions of Gloriana making sad work of us all—that’s how matters stood till Busyrane organized our Chapter. Why, I mind me, I had a very good thing once, very good. Found a man of property who wanted a love philter. I made it for him, and he refused to pay. As he was more ass than human, I promised him his ears should grow an inch a day, with the price doubled for each inch they grew till he got me to take the spell off.” Dolon laughed and puffed. “I told you I was a good deal of a humorist.