by Andre Norton
They had almost finished their breakfast when they were interrupted by a shy tapping at the door. By the time the wizard opened it, no one was in sight, but a basket of brown eggs had been left on the doorstep.
“It’s because of the pig, you know,” said the wizard, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine why they still feel obliged.”
“Pig?” prompted Drop. ‘
“I worked a magical cure for it, you see,” explained the wizard. “The poor creature had a palsy… or was that the farmer’s aunt? Perhaps it was colic. In any case, they’re grateful for my help, the nearby folk, but most of them are mistrustful of magic.” He sighed. “I’ve always had a talent for magic, ever since I was a child. It quite upset my parents. They expected me to become a wool merchant. I can’t think of any other excuse for the name they gave me.”
Puzzled, Drop said, “Flax?”
“Er, no.” The wizard hesitated. “Woostrom,” he confided, making a sour face. “What sort of name is that for a wizard? Still,” he conceded, “they didn’t know that I was to become a wizard. Fortunately, everyone soon began calling me ‘Flax,’ for the obvious reason.”
“Reason?” Drop could perceive no reason to relate the wizard to a vegetable fiber which the speech spell informed him could be spun into linen.
“My hair, of course,” retorted the wizard, then added with a rueful smile, “when I had some, that is. It was just the color of flax.”
“Ah,” said Drop, enlightened.
“Before I forget,” the wizard continued, “do let me introduce you to the others who share my cottage. You will have noticed Ghost, our resident owl.” Flax pointed toward the pale puff of feathers on the high shelf. At the sound of its name, Ghost briefly opened both pink eyes. “After I mended his broken wing, he chose to stay on. Very keen hearing, owls,” the wizard observed, then added in a low tone, “I try not to disturb Ghost by speaking loudly, and most especially avoid shouting his name. For some reason, that agitates him unduly, and he tends to fly to one’s head and… er, um… pull one’s hair.” Flax patted his own bald head reminiscently. “In my present condition, I do not welcome such aggressive attention. And there is, of course, Cyril, who had a most dreadful injury to his tail. I feared for some time that he could not recover, but he has assumed his place under the table, and nowadays I seldom even see a mouse.
Most satisfactory.”
Drop stared under the table, seeing nothing but bare wooden legs and the wizard’s own buskined feet.
“No, not this table,” said Flax, following his glance.
“The side table.”
What Drop had previously dismissed as ornamental rings of carved wood now slowly uncoiled into a sizable snake, albeit a snake with a much truncated tail.
Flax bent down to rub Cyril’s head. “So few people recognize the real virtues of snakes. I’ll wager there’s not another snake in the kingdom who can rival Cyril for learning. Not scholarly learning, you understand,” he hastened to add. “No, I can’t claim that, but Cyril responds famously to patterns of taps on his head. I rather suspect that snakes may well be deaf; certainly Cyril doesn’t appear to hear at all. You can imagine how long I bellowed at him with absolutely no result-except to agitate Ghost. Then I thought he might possibly feel vibrations, so I tried the tapping. Cyril now knows that two taps mean ‘come,’ three mean ‘food,’ and four mean ‘danger.’ Most accomplished of him.”
Drop warily watched Cyril’s blunt head approach his slippered foot, but apart from flicking out a forked tongue, Cyril politely refrained from touching Drop. In his cat form, Drop had usually avoided snakes. He had definitely never seen a snake as large in girth as Cyril, whose broadest dimension rivaled Drop’s own wrist.
“Large,” Drop observed, looking from his own forearm to the snake.
“Oh, yes, Cyril’s size,” the wizard replied. “I was given Cyril by a traveler who had acquired him in a distant, warmer land. Cyril dozes a good deal in cold weather, and, for that matter, he also frequently basks in the garden in the summer. While indoors, he generally curls around that table base. He doesn’t care to be trodden upon, you know-much better to stay out of the way of people’s feet. Now, let us carry these dishes to the kitchen, and I shall show you how to wash them.”
“Why?” asked Drop, carefully balancing his plate between his uninjured fingers.
“Because we shall want to use them again,” the wizard explained. “When you were a cat, you washed yourself, to stay tidy. We humans have to use soap and water instead of our tongues, but the object is the same. Come along.”
Over the next few days, Drop gradually became accustomed to the shape and uses of his new body. Learning how to grasp objects took some practice, but soon he could brace things against the hard bandage protecting his broken hand, and was able to fetch most of what the wizard needed. As his natural feline grace of movement emerged, he stopped blundering into things, to Ghost’s considerable relief. The owl much preferred a quiet, steady household, without the crash of shattering dishes or items cascading from jostled shelves.
Drop discovered anew that humans were creatures of habit, insisting upon three meals a day, and sleeping most of the night. Fortunately for Drop’s cat nature, the wizard tended to indulge in frequent naps during the day, and often worked far into the night. The wizard patiently answered Drop’s questions, and encouraged the lad in his efforts to decipher the curious marks called “writing.”
“Until your hand heals,” the wizard said, “I don’t think I shall trouble you with a stylus or quill, but you can learn the shapes of the letters and how words are made from them.”
They were somewhat impeded in their activities by the wizard’s explosive fits of sneezing.
“I must have become overly chilled the night I brought you inside,” Flax remarked, dabbing at his reddened nose. “Bother-most frustrating when one is trying to weigh something small like this mustard seed… a-choo!”
It was late that afternoon when they were startled by a volley of thuds on the front door.
“My hat,” complained Flax as he hurried to open the door. “There’s no need to batter your way in. Well, what can I do for you?”
A stocky figure enveloped in a black cloak was just raising his cudgel for another thump. “At last!” he exclaimed in a rasping voice. “Am I in the presence of the illustrious Woostrom?”
The wizard sneezed convulsively. “Yes, I am Woostrom, although I prefer being called ‘Flax.’ Come in, come in, before the draft sets me to… a-choo!”
The unexpected visitor strode past Flax, pausing in the main room to pivot on a burnished boot heel. “A splendid house-for, if I may say so, a splendid wizard. Your fame, Master Woostrom, has spread over considerable distances.”
The wizard blinked in surprise. “I can’t imagine why,” he said. “I exchange a few spells now and then with some colleagues, but chiefly I am occupied here, in this rather isolated cottage.”
“You are entirely too modest,” declared the visitor. “I have traveled far, and always when potent magic was being discussed, the name of Woostrom arose. But allow me to introduce myself.” With a flourish of his cloak, he bowed imperiously. “I am Skarn, a humble apprentice at the noble craft of wizardry.”
“Indeed. I am Flax,” the wizard asserted, “and this is Drop, my assistant.”
Skarn scarcely glanced at the silent lad, who was pondering a growing sense of instant dislike to the stranger. His face seemed unremarkable-he had a rather narrow, pointed nose, long, dark red hair, and beady eyes the color of grimy green bottleglass. But there was something about Skarn… Drop’s human nose twitched. Skarn exuded a curiously peppery scent that made Drop’s nose tingle. Surely Master Flax was aware of it-but one look at the wizard’s swollen nose confirmed that in his congested state, he likely could not distinguish catnip from turnips. There was, however, one other of the cottage’s inhabitants who appeared to be disquieted by Skarn’s arrival. The humans didn’t notice, but from the
corner of his eye, Drop saw that Ghost was sidling quietly along his bookshelf toward the corner near an interior door. In a moment, he glided soundlessly away down the hall.
Meanwhile, Skarn was continuing in a wheedling tone, extending a gloved hand importunately toward Flax. “I have searched for you for such a time. Could you permit me to bide here for the night? It would be a great honor to confer with you, at your leisure, of course.”
Had Drop been a dog, his mounting distrust would have made him growl; instead, Skarn’s pungent scent made him sneeze.
“Bless you,” said Flax, instantly concerned. “I do hope that you have not contracted my own difficulty.”
Skarn harrumphed loudly, displeased that the wizard’s attention had been distracted. “I should not require much room,” he persisted. “Any small space where I might roll up in a blanket…”
“Eh? Oh, a place to sleep,” said Flax. “We have a number of spare rooms here-no problem at all. Take off your cloak, then, Master Skarn, if you are staying. Drop, put on the kettle, if you will, and we shall offer our guest some herbal tea. He can use the back room two doors down from my study… I believe that its bed is made.”
“So warmly hospitable.” Skarn grimaced, showing narrow, rather sharp teeth that reminded Drop of a wharf rat he had once chased on a dockside. Unaccountably, the hair stirred at the back of Drop’s neck.
Skarn whipped off his cloak, and tossed it at Drop without any word of thanks. Drop hurried to fold the cloak across a chair in the small guest room. Wrongness, he thought-there was something unnatural about Master Skarn, something besides his unmistakable reek of pepper.
During the evening meal, Skarn withdrew an ornamental metal shaker from his vest and liberally dusted his plate of stew. “A weakness of mine,” he confided. “I don’t invite you to try this spice blend, Master Woostrom, since most folk find it exceedingly strong. I encountered the ingredients in far Druzan years ago, and plain food now seems insipid without it.”
Drop and Flax sneezed simultaneously as a faint whiff of the spice mixture reached them.
“I’m sure that would be too lively for my simple tastes,” commented the wizard. “Pray tell me, is it true as I have read, that Druzan is much afflicted by sorcerers?”
Skarn airily waved a sharp-nailed hand. “I did not find it so. The Druzanians seemed most willing, even eager to share their knowledge. But doubtless I have bored you with my lengthy traveler’s tales.” His mouth gaped in a vast yawn. “Forgive me-I find I am wearier than I thought. If I might retire for the night?”
“Of course. Drop, light a lamp for Master Skarn. Thank you. Let me show you to your room. This way.” With a final sneeze, Flax bade his guest good night, and shortly afterward, the household settled into peaceful slumber.
It seemed peaceful until Drop roused-sharply, suddenly wide awake. What had caught his ear? Some unusual sound? Not waiting to tug on his slippers, Drop padded barefooted along the twisting hallway toward the wizard’s study. Furtive sounds were emanating from that direction, and even Drop’s now woefully inadequate night vision could distinguish glimmers of light around the closed study door.
Closed? Master Flax never closed his study door. Drop crept silently to the threshold and listened. Something or someone was definitely moving about inside. Spreading his fingers wide, Drop gently pressed his unbandaged hand against the door. The rough wooden surface eased back until Drop could see into the study. Fitfully illuminated by a yellow-greenish witchlight, Skarn was rummaging through the cubbyholes and drawers of Flax’s desk.
A surge of anger swept through Drop. Taking a deep breath, he cried out loudly, “Thief! Flax-Come!”
Skarn spun around at the call, gesturing at the door, which slammed violently open, revealing his accuser. “Be quiet!” Skarn snarled, but both of them could hear the sneezes of the awakened, approaching wizard.
Flax stopped behind Drop, and peered over his head into the study. In a deceptively mild tone, the wizard observed, “Why, Master Skarn… if you couldn’t sleep. I would gladly have recommended a soothing spell-although surely a man of your talents could have managed that on his own.” With a quiet word, Flax gestured, and the candles in the study kindled. Skarn’s witchlight contracted to a point, then vanished.
“Bah!” Skarn bared his teeth in a thoroughly unpleasant smile. “The time for acting is past. I mean to have Kryppen’s potion. Where have you concealed it?”
Flax appeared genuinely puzzled. “Kryppen’s potion? I do assure you that I have no idea what that might be. I frequently make up Kraffen’s poultice for drawing out boils, and of course, there’s Warpin’s pitch for sealing leaky vessels, but as for Kryppen’s…”
“Silence, you garrulous old fool!” bellowed Skarn. “Do you realize how much trouble you have caused me? So far, I have had to kill four men and one demon to trace the path of this precious potion to your door.”
“My door?” Flax shook his head. “I fear you must have been misled. I have no such item.”
“Ha! You can’t deceive me. Master Kryppen created it twenty years ago, and I have sought it for ten. You have hidden it!” Skarn glared at the jumble of items he had already disarranged. “I know it is somewhere here, and I intend to find it.”
“But I have never heard of Master Kryppen,” Flax objected.
Skarn ignored the assertion as he impatiently scrabbled through a file of dusty bottles on a desk shelf. “He sold some of it to Nementh of Goor, whose lackwitted nephew gambled it away. Never mind its trail over the years-it came to you after you performed some service for Mistress Wryfern, who, not knowing what she had, gave it to you.”
“Dear Mistress Wryfern,” exclaimed the wizard with genuine warmth. “I do hope she fares well nowadays.”
“She’s as hard to pry news from as a clam embedded in stone,” rasped Skarn. “Still, I determined what she had done, and I have come to claim my prize.”
“Why?” inquired Flax.
“What do you mean, ‘why’?” retorted Skarn. The wizard sighed, employing his most patient tone, familiar to Drop from his reading instruction. “I mean, why do you consider it your prize? If this particular potion had been given to me as a token of gratitude, why should you claim it as yours?”
“Because I know how it should be used,” snapped Skarn. “In my hands,” he added with gleeful satisfaction, “it could slay hundreds… thousands.”
“Nonsense!” said Flax stoutly. “I distinctly recall that particular potion now. Mistress Wryfern described it to me clearly as a mere entertainment for parties-a prank potion.”
Skarn guffawed. “No doubt that was as far as that fool Kryppen could envision a use for it. But consider the possibilities on a battlefield or against the crowded populace of an enemy city-when I applied my mind to that aspect, I was quite inspired. I thought of the rot-flesh fungus almost at once.”
Drop saw all trace of color drain from the wizard’s face.
Evidently appalled, Flax blurted in a strained voice, “Skarn-you would not. You could not!”
Skarn rubbed his hands together. “Oh, but I could, and I did. Just ponder the glorious combination-start with an innocent potion that spreads your intended effect from person to person by touch. What merriment at a party to have first one guest brush another, who touches a third, and each one commences to sneeze or laugh or twitch-most amusing, wouldn’t you say? Picture that multiplying effect transferring the activity of the rot-flesh fungus. You will have seen what happens to any luckless animal who brushes against those fungal growths from the far southern swamps? Something like the action of quicklime, or general corruption, only much accelerated.”
“You could not loose such a plague,” said Flex hoarsely. “You would yourself be caught up in the contamination.”
Skarn bobbed his head, smirking as if pleased by his listener’s insight. “And so I would, should I be demented enough to be present-but I do not intend to be present. Someone else will be my agent. They will necessarily peri
sh, of course, but then every great plan has its minor costs.”
The wizard’s pale face seemed stricken, but he also appeared to have come to a decision. “Drop,” he said quietly, “you did well to summon me. This is far worse than a case of mere thievery.” His voice hardened with resolve. “Skarn-if that be your true name-you are contemplating murder on a hideous scale. You shall not have that potion.”
“Ah, but I do have it within my very grasp,” purred Skarn. “Is that not the private seal of Mistress Wryfern on that quaint little blue glass bottle I have just uncovered at the back of your desk?”
Throughout this confrontation between Skarn and the wizard, Drop’s sense of unease and alarm had been mounting. It was clear to him that Skarn was a dangerous creature who must be prevented from stealing Master Flax’s property. Giving no advance warning sound, Drop leaped toward Skarn, hoping to bear him to the floor, away from the desk.
Skarn, however, whirled at the initial movement, and pronounced some harsh sounds. Instantly, Drop found his forward thrust jolted to a stop, and his limbs immovable.
“Relying on a one-handed lad to defend you, eh, Woostrom?” crowed Skarn. “My binding spell will deal with him.”
“Deal then with me!” roared Flax, raising both hands. As he intoned a spate of awesome sounds, great thick ropes formed in the air and spiraled around Skarn, pinning his arms to his sides.
Drop felt greatly relieved, until Skarn spat other sounds, at which the ropes withered away to mere threads he cast contemptuously to the floor.
“You dare to oppose me?” he sneered. “I am Skarn the sorcerer! No man stands before my wrath.” Flinging up his hands, he conjured a gust of murky flame that blasted toward Flax, but it was quenched in mid-flight by an equally fierce geyser of conjured water sent by the wizard. Spells and counterspells erupted in the quivering cottage, clashing between the magical combatants.
Literally spellbound, Drop watched, his mind racing. There had to be some way he could aid Master Flax… but first he had to be able to move. Skarn had mistakenly assumed that Drop was a normal human lad; but Drop was not merely that. A binding spell meant to restrain a lad might not necessarily fully bind a magically transformed cat. Drop cautiously endeavored to move his toes… they responded slowly, leadenly, but they did move. Now for one arm, then the other… very slowly. He could not afford to attract Skarn’s attention. Fortunately, Skarn’s attention was most fully engaged by Flax’s magical assaults.