Calling on Dragons

by Patricia C. Wrede

Shaking her hand as if it stung, Kazul said, “I think he’s changed his mind.”

  “Too late,” Morwen said. “Trouble, Scorn, let’s go.”

  “Do we get a raise?” Trouble asked as he leapt into the laundry basket.

  “Move over,” Scorn said, following.

  “Morwen, what are you going to do?” Cimorene asked in a worried tone.

  “Get Telemain inside where it’s warm and dry,” Morwen replied. “I’ll send the basket back for you and Killer.”

  “Are you sure you should—”

  “I’m sure.” Morwen settled herself against the side of the laundry basket and took hold of the rim. Tapping three times with her left forefinger, she said, “Onward and upward.”

  The laundry basket shuddered, then slowly began to rise. Morwen made no attempt to speed it up. The broomstick spell was stretched a little thin as it was. As they passed Kazul’s nose, Trouble stuck a long gray paw over the rim and waved. The laundry basket wobbled in response, and Trouble scrambled back toward the center.

  “Hold still,” Morwen told him. “You could dump us over if you aren’t careful. This isn’t a broomstick.”

  “Now she tells me.”

  “I should think it was obvious.”

  To this Trouble made no reply. Morwen sat motionless, watching the pale surface of the tower glide past. Finally, the laundry basket reached the window. “Stop,” said Morwen.

  The laundry basket obliged. Peering in, Morwen saw a thin young man with bright red hair standing beside a fireplace, his back to the window. A fire-witch? thought Morwen. In the middle of a swamp? Well, not all red-haired people were fire-witches. Morwen glanced around the rest of the room. On the far side, a staircase led downward next to the wall. A stone bench, a small desk, and three comfortable-looking chairs were the only furnishings.

  With great care, Morwen leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The young man jumped and whirled, and his eyes got very large. When he did not come any nearer, Morwen tapped the window again.

  “Just break it,” said Trouble. “It would be less work.”

  Scorn snorted. “You are thinking about as much as that blue winged imbecile down below. If she breaks the window, some of the glass might fall on top of them.” She waved her tail at the figures of Kazul, Telemain, Cim­orene, and Killer beneath them. “She can’t count on all of it falling inside, even if she’s careful.”

  For the third time, impatiently, Morwen rapped at the window. The red-haired man blinked, as if he were coming out of a daze, and then walked over to the window.

  “Who are you?” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the glass.

  “My name is Morwen, and I have an injured friend here who needs rest and warmth. Open this window immediately, please.”

  “I suppose I might as well.” The redhead unlatched the window and swung it open, narrowly missing Morwen’s head. “Sorry.”

  “And well you should be,” Morwen told him. “Are you always so careless?”

  “Mostly,” said the man. “How did you get up—That’s my laundry basket!” He stared for a moment, then hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. You enchanted the basket. Why didn’t she think of that years ago? Why didn’t Rachel think of it? Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of it?”

  “Because you’re stupid?” Scorn suggested.

  “When I think of all the effort I could have saved, hauling that thing up and down and up and down and—”

  “Yes, of course,” said Morwen. “Now, if you could just give me a hand with—Trouble! Not yet.” The cat had crouched, preparing to spring out of the laundry basket.

  “What’s that?” said the man. “What sort of trouble? And why do you want a hand with it?”

  “Cats,” said Morwen. “And I don’t want a hand with them. It’s Telemain who—”

  As if the sound of his name had partially awakened him, Telemain grunted and stirred. The laundry basket swung sideways, throwing Trouble off his feet. This made the basket swing even more wildly. Morwen bent forward and grabbed the window ledge, which helped stabilize things a little. Then Telemain moaned and tried to sit up. The laundry basket wobbled violently, nearly spilling everyone out. The cats wailed, and Morwen was only just able to keep hold of the window ledge.

  “Blast the man!” Morwen said. “Why does he have to pick just this instant to start recovering? Telemain, hold still.”

  The red-haired man leaned out of the window and grabbed the rim of the laundry basket. “Stop that immediately,” he said sternly. “Stay put.”

  The laundry basket froze. Trouble yowled and leapt from the bottom of the laundry basket to the young man’s bent-over back, and from there into the room. “Good idea,” said Scorn, and followed.

  “Oof! Oof!” said the man. “What was that?”

  “Cats,” Morwen said again. “Help me get Telemain out of here before he dumps us over.”

  Between the two of them, they wrestled Telemain out of the laundry basket and through the window. To Morwen’s mild surprise, the basket remained perfectly stable throughout the entire operation, but as soon as the red-haired man turned away the basket began to wobble once more.

  “There’s another person and an oversized donkey at the foot of your tower as well,” Morwen said when Telemain was safely inside, lying comfortably on the floor in front of the fireplace. They’d have to wait to do anything about the mud that covered him from head to foot, but fortunately the red-haired man did not have much in the way of carpeting. The stone floor would sweep up easily enough. “I’d like to bring the others up as soon as possible. The donkey will be a bit tricky.”

  “I’ll be glad to—” The young man broke off, and his expression darkened, as if he were remembering something that annoyed him. “No. I shouldn’t have let you in. You had your chance.”

  Morwen looked at him sternly over the tops of her glasses. “If you are sulky because we didn’t allow you to haul us up immediately, you are being unreasonable, unmannerly, and overly bad tempered, even for a fire-witch. Enchanting that basket of yours has saved you a good deal of effort, now and in the future, and you ought to thank us for it.”

  “How do you know I’m a fire-witch?” the man demanded angrily.

  “You have red hair, a touchy disposition, and an instinctive control over magic, even other people’s spells,” Morwen said. “And from the way you burned that rope, you’ve some affinity for fire as well. It’s obvious. Now, are you going to let me bring up those people or not?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Morwen, company,” said Scorn.

  Morwen turned. Outside the open window, enormous wings flapping furiously, Killer was coming in for a landing. Cimorene lay low along his back to avoid the wings, her arms wrapped around his neck.

  “Have you found something we can have for dinner?” Killer asked.

  14

  In Which They Trade Stories

  THE RED-HAIRED MAN STARED at the apparition in disbelief. Morwen didn’t blame him. Killer looked nearly as unsteady as the laundry basket, which was still hovering just outside the window.

  “What on earth is that?” the man demanded.

  “My friends,” Morwen said. “You’d better back up. There’s not much room to spare, coming through that window, and Killer’s never done this before.”

  “Killer?” The man backed up hastily. “Good grief, it’s blue.”

  “Oh, really?” said Scorn, her voice dripping sarcasm. “We hadn’t noticed.”

  “You know, I don’t think his wings will fit through the opening unless he folds them,” Trouble said. “I wonder how he’ll manage?”

  Killer flapped higher, then dove for the window, folding his wings at the last minute. His momentum wasn’t quite enough to carry him through, and for an instant his front hooves flailed uselessly against air inside the tower while his back legs hung outside. Then he kicked, wiggled, and tumbled into the room, where he sprawled six inches above the floo
r, panting loudly. The sudden jerk tore Cimorene loose, and she landed next to Killer with a thud.

  “Ow!” said Cimorene. “Morwen, are you all right? When the basket didn’t come down again, I got worried.”

  “Everything is fine,” Morwen said. “Telemain is even beginning to come out of the initial stages of backshock.”

  “Then what took you so long?” Cimorene demanded.

  “I was chatting with our host . . .” Morwen turned expectantly to the red-haired man.

  “Brandel,” the red-haired man supplied. He still sounded sullen, but there was an undercurrent of interest, too. “I suppose that, since you’re in, you can stay.” He looked from Morwen to Killer to the cats to Cimorene. “But you’re going to have to explain yourselves.”

  “In a minute,” Morwen said. “First, we have to tell Kazul what’s been going on. Unless you want a worried dragon tearing your tower apart.” Without waiting for Brandel to answer, she leaned out the window and began shouting reassurances.

  Explaining to Kazul took some time, and after that they had to haul the laundry basket back inside. Once it was in, they discovered that Killer had kicked a hole in the side in his last desperate lunge through the window. This put Brandel out of sorts again.

  “I should throw you all back out the window immediately,” he grumbled. “You’re nothing but a lot of vagabonds.”

  “That doesn’t sound right,” Killer said, climbing to his feet. “Unless vagabonds is a word for a witch and a magician and the Queen of the Enchanted Forest and the King of the Dragons and some cats. And me. Is that what it means, Morwen?”

  “Not exactly. Brandel is just grouchy.”

  “Oh.” Killer shook himself, which made his wings flop open. He had to flap them once to keep his balance and then again to get them back in position. “I thought having wings would be interesting, but they’re just a big nuisance.”

  “What was that about queens and kings and magicians?” Brandel asked Morwen.

  So Morwen made a round of formal introductions, which soothed everyone’s feelings. Then, just when they were getting ready to sit down and talk, Telemain stirred again and Morwen had to quiet him.

  “I thought you wanted him to wake up,” Killer said.

  “I do, but thrashing around won’t help him recover,” Morwen said. “He needs to keep quiet.”

  “No problem,” said Trouble. He stood up, stretched, strolled over to Telemain, and draped himself down the center of the magician’s chest. “How long do you want him like this?”

  “Thank you, Trouble,” Morwen said, feeling relieved. Not only would Trouble’s efforts hasten Telemain’s recovery, but keeping Telemain quiet would also keep Trouble from getting into trouble. Given a specific job, the cat was quite reliable. “Two or three more hours should do it, now that he’s warm. Then we can wake him, feed him some broth, and put him to bed.”

  “I bet he won’t want to go,” said Scorn.

  “Three hours. Right.” Trouble yawned and put his head down on his paws.

  “I thought regular witches were supposed to have black cats,” said Brandel, looking from Trouble to Scorn. “Unless—are you a fire-witch, too?”

  “No,” said Morwen. “But I don’t see why that should limit me to black cats.”

  Brandel started to ask something else, then stopped, frowning. “No. I’ll ask you about that later. Right now, you’re here and you’re all settled, and I want my explanation. Before something else happens.”

  “First, I’d like to know how you feel about wizards,” Morwen said.

  “I’ve never met one,” Brandel replied. “And I’m not sure I want to. They don’t have a very good reputation.”

  “Good,” said Cimorene. “It’s like this . . .” And she launched into the explanation.

  Brandel listened with interest, but when Cimorene reached the end of her tale, he frowned. “How did you get by the invisible dusk-blooming chokevines? I thought I’d gotten all the openings near the tower filled in.”

  “Kazul burned a path through them.”

  “Mmph. Must be handy, traveling with a dragon.”

  “Sometimes,” said Morwen. “Other times it’s an inconvenience.”

  Suddenly, Scorn’s ears pricked up and her whiskers twitched forward. “Well, well. What’s this?”

  Morwen glanced sideways to see what Scorn was watching so intently. On the top step of the staircase, a large, fluffy cat stood gazing at the newcomers. He was mostly black, with a white chin, white front paws, and a white tuft at the very end of his tail, and his expression was wary and disapproving.

  “So you’ve finally decided to come see what was going on, have you?” Brandel said to the cat.

  “Mrrow,” said the cat.

  “We have visitors,” Brandel said. “Morwen, Cim­orene, Killer, this is my cat, Horatio.”

  “Well, hel-lo, handsome,” said Scorn. Her tail lashed once each way, and she sat up and began washing her face with great unconcern.

  “He doesn’t look that great to me,” Trouble snarled.

  “Behave yourself,” Morwen said sternly. “We’re guests.”

  Horatio eyed the group a moment longer, then came slowly forward. Halfway across the room, he stopped, studying Scorn with an intensity that matched hers. “Mmmrrr,” he said at last. “Mrow yow eiou?”

  “No, she won’t!” Trouble shifted uneasily, as if longing to jump up and pounce on this intruder. Then Morwen caught his eye, and he settled back into place on Telemain’s chest, muttering under his breath.

  Scorn looked from Trouble to Horatio and made a show of considering. “You don’t need me for anything right now, do you, Morwen?”

  “No,” said Morwen.

  “Then I’ll be happy to look around,” Scorn said to Horatio. “See you later, folks.”

  “Watch your step,” Trouble growled. “You can’t trust him.”

  “I should hope not,” said Scorn. “After all, he’s a cat.” Tail high, she sauntered over to Horatio. The two cats exchanged sniffs, then Horatio led the way to the staircase and they disappeared.

  “She’s going to regret this,” Trouble said. “So is he, as soon as I—”

  Morwen caught his eye again, and he stopped short. “I don’t expect to have to warn you twice,” she said.

  “All right, all right, but you wait and see.”

  “Quiet,” said Morwen. “Brandel, we’ve told you what we’re doing here. Now suppose you tell us what you’re doing here.”

  “Living,” said Brandel. “Staying out of trouble. At least, that’s how it was supposed to work,” he added sourly.

  “Of course,” said Cimorene with considerably more patience than Morwen could have mustered. “But how did you come here in the first place? The middle of a swamp is an unusual place to find a fire-witch.”

  Brandel sighed. “It’s a little complicated. I come from a family of fire-witches. Both my parents are fire-witches, and so are most of my aunts and uncles and cousins. My eldest sister is a fire-witch, and my younger brother. Everyone, in fact, except my younger sister, Rachel.”

  “That must have been difficult for her,” Cimorene said. “Being the only different one in the family is hard.”

  “My parents thought the same thing,” Brandel said. “So when Rachel was very small, Mother brought her to the sorceress who lived in this tower, to be apprenticed.”

  “A sorceress chose to live in a swamp?” Cimorene said skeptically.

  “They like inaccessible places,” Morwen said. “Though I’ll grant you, this is a little extreme. Go on, Brandel.”

  “The sorceress agreed to take Rachel in and teach her magic, and once every five years or so we would come and visit. Since there wasn’t a door in the tower, the sorceress lowered a chair on a long rope and hauled us up to the window one at a time.” Brandel shook his head. “The laundry basket is a lot safer; it’s not so easy to fall out of.

  “In any case, the sorceress asked us to keep the arrangemen
t a secret, and we tried, but that sort of thing always seems to get out somehow. Some of the rumors were pretty wild: one of the stories said my mother sold Rachel to a wicked witch in exchange for some vegetables.”

  “I think I’ve heard that one,” Cimorene said.

  “Anyway, there wasn’t much we could do. By the time Rachel was sixteen, all sorts of people were showing up in the swamp to rescue the beautiful princess from the wicked witch.”

  Cimorene nodded. “I know what that’s like. When I was Kazul’s princess, the knights and heroes made themselves a dreadful nuisance. You wouldn’t believe how stubborn some of them could be.”

  “Want to bet? They’re still coming around, and half the time they won’t listen when I say she isn’t here any longer.” Brandel looked down. “That’s what I thought you were, at first: a group of heroes.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable description to me,” said Trouble.

  “Is your sister beautiful?” Morwen asked.

  Brandel shrugged. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose. For a while, she was flattered by all the attention, but the constant interruptions just irritated the sorceress. Finally, she gave the tower to Rachel and moved somewhere else, just to get away from it all.”

  “I can’t say I blame her,” Cimorene said, nodding.

  “I don’t know,” said Killer, who had been listening with great interest. “It must have taken a lot of work to build a place like this. Couldn’t she have just kept them away somehow?”

  “They’re very persistent,” Cimorene said. “You have no idea.”

  “And besides, heroes weren’t the only problem with this location,” Brandel said. “Just the main one.”

  Killer snorted softly. “I still think—”

  “About the tower,” Morwen said to Brandel. “The sorceress gave it to your sister . . .”

  “And she lived here for a while, until she couldn’t stand having strangers stand outside and shout, ‘Rachel! Rachel, send down the chair’ any longer. Half the time they didn’t even get her name right. So when Arona started making life difficult for me, she—”

  Morwen stiffened. “Hold on a minute. Who did you just say was making life difficult for you?”