The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “In Sikander's, you mean! My apologies, Lord Wizard, but an accusation is not a verdict. I cannot suspect a man who reported the abduction to me as soon as he learned of it.”

  “I hope you're right,” Matt said wearily.

  “I trust my son implicitly.”

  Matt reflected that Caesar would have said the same about Brutus, but also realized the wisdom of keeping his mouth shut. “Still, I might point out that ten thousand men marching down a highway isn't exactly the most subtle of approaches. Anyone who does know anything about Balkis would be apt to run for cover as soon as he saw them coming.”

  “There is something in that,” Prester John said with a frown, “but surely that is the minimum number necessary to guard a prince.”

  “He won't find out much, with that kind of ruckus announcing his presence. I must admit, though, that if Prince Tashih is leading a couple of armies through the northern provinces, anyone hiding her in the south is apt to breathe a sigh of relief and stop trying so hard to be invisible—and might not notice a lone traveler nosing around.”

  Prester John's frown turned meditative. “There is some merit in what you say. You, I assume, would be that lone traveler?”

  “Well, almost alone.” Matt could see Prester John's over-protective instincts swelling and hastened to reassure him. “I'll take my dragon friend along, of course. He'll stay hidden but near at hand, except when I need to travel from one city to another.”

  “There could be fewer guards who would be more effective,” Prester John admitted.

  “Except my own magic spells,” Matt reminded him. “I've gotten rather good at crafting passive defenses—they don't hurt anybody unless I'm attacked.”

  “Then how much pain do they inflict?”

  Matt shrugged. “As much as my attacker is trying to inflict on me. Sometimes more, if I'm feeling nasty. Depends on what I set 'em for.”

  Prester John managed a smile—faltering, but a smile. “Well thought, Lord Wizard. Very well, we will try your style of investigation for a few days. But where will you search, and where shall Prince Tashih march with his army?”

  “Give me a few minutes alone with Sikander, then with Corundel,” Matt told him. “Then I'll need a quick trip to the apothecary's shop. After that I should have some idea of direction.”

  The world whirled, a myriad of colors that swirled around her. Balkis had been through this before when Matthew had taken them magically from one place to another, but had never been suffering from being drugged at the time. Nausea churned within her, clambering up farther and farther. She held it down by a frantic effort of will, afraid that in this kaleidoscopic whirlwind it would drown her.

  Then the rainbow kaleidoscope stopped whirling, a solid surface steadied beneath her knees, and the malaise would be contained no longer. Balkis was violently sick. Even in the throes of regurgitating, she remembered to lean forward, to keep her robes clean.

  The spasm passed, and she sat back on her heels, gasping for air. Now she could look about her, and years of fending for herself as a cat made her put aside her misery long enough to learn her surroundings. She obviously wasn't completely steady yet—the ground still seemed to be tilting.

  Then she realized that it really was tilting. She was on a hillside, kneeling in brown frost-covered grass—and those huge four-legged shapes coming to investigate her were cows.

  But the smell of her must have been alien to them, for they began lowing to one another in a more and more urgent tone. Her stomach sank as she realized they were egging one another on, working themselves into a herd frenzy to attack the intruder. They were coming faster and faster, and here and there one broke into an ungainly run, then more, then all, charging at her in a thunder of hooves, heads down, horns aimed at this strange and somehow threatening human.

  Balkis' every instinct told her to flee, but she knew that in her weakened condition she couldn't possibly outrun a stampede. One thought struggled up through the dizziness of her concussed brain, though—smaller objects were harder to hit. She fought down panic and tried to imagine what these cows would look like if they were six times taller, if the meadow grass about her ankles were up to her shoulders, if the meadow were alive with scents, if she stood on four legs instead of kneeling on two …

  The old, familiar sensations claimed her, and the cows swelled to become ten times larger, the grass shot up shoulder-high about her, the world became a wonderful symphony of smells, but bleached of most of its color. She knew she had become a cat again—and, wonder of wonders, her headache was gone!

  The cows slowed and bawled to one another, confused by the strange human's shrinking away and disappearing—but their momentum carried them to her and beyond. Trotting hooves still flashed around her, and she danced, trying to avoid them, head whipping from side to side as she tried to keep track of each, but there were too many moving too fast, and the lowing and bawling all about her was too confusing. A hoof cracked into her head, making her wobble; then another hoof lifted her high, to carom off the side of another cow, who promptly turned, bawling, to see what had hit her, and trod on Balkis' tail. She yowled. The sound surprised the cows enough so that they pulled back and away from her a little.

  Head whirling, Balkis nonetheless recognized opportunity when she saw it. She streaked through the suddenly open space, zigzagged between hooves, and darted into the shelter of a clump of small twisted pines.

  The cows ignored her; they milled about, lowing to one another in confusion, trying to find the woman whose appearance had startled them.

  Under a pine tree, Balkis curled herself into a fluffy ball of misery. The blow from the hoof had brought her headache back, pounding at the inside of her skull until unconsciousness mercifully claimed her. She didn't even notice the long rip in her side that a sharp-edged hoof had opened, nor the blood flowing from it that began to clot in her fiir.

  The key groaned in the lock, and Sikander looked up dull-eyed to see the jailer ushering in a man with a face so pale that he wondered what illness had beset him. Then he saw the prominent nose and round eyes, and stared.

  The stranger gave him a sardonic smile. “Where I come from, it's rude to stare.”

  Sikander blinked and tore his gaze away. “Your pardon. It is only that I have never seen a Frank before.”

  “Only part French ” Matt corrected. “The rest is Spanish and Cuban. Mind if I sit down?”

  Sikander stiffened with sudden anger. The man was only a commoner! Oh, his buflf-and-brown traveling clothes were of stout cloth and excellent cut, but a single glance showed they were certainly not those of a courtier.

  The man seemed to read his thoughts. “I'm traveling incognito, but I'm really Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence and consort to the queen of that land.”

  Sikander stared, then leaped to his feet. “Sit, certainly, my lord, and forgive my impertinence!”

  The stranger sat down on the cell's only stool, then frowned up at Sikander. “I didn't mean to reverse things. Sit down, courtier!”

  “You—You do not mind?”

  “Hey, it's your cell.”

  Sikander sat slowly on the edge of the bunk, his mind in a whirl. Had this wizard come out of mercy, or to make him suffer for his wrongs? He could think of no other reason for his presence.

  “I need to know everything I can about the night you stole Princess Balkis away,” the Lord Wizard explained.

  The mention of the princess' name linked with that of the Lord Wizard, and Sikander blurted, “You were her master!”

  “Teacher, maybe,” Matt qualified. “Traveling companion, certainly—but don't worry, I haven't come to skin you alive. I'll leave that for her to do, when she gets back.”

  Sikander's heart sank at the thought of confronting an enraged wizard-princess. Then it bounced back up as he realized that for Balkis to seek him out, he would have to be alive when she returned. “Am… am I to live?”

  “Oh, you'll go on living for a while,” Matt sa
id, “at least ten minutes, probably ten days, maybe ten years—possibly even the rest of your life. Exactly how long I can't say—that's up to Prester John. But I have a notion it will have something to do with how helpful you are about finding the princess.”

  “I shall help! Ask me what you will!”

  “Fair enough.” Matt grinned. “Now, we know you had help from a lady named Corundel…”

  Sikander's face closed.

  “Don't worry, I'm not trying to trap you,” Matt said. “A lady named Chrynsis happened to mention that Corundel had filled in for her on the bedtime committee, and the other courtiers put two and two together.”

  “Have they indeed!” Sikander's face was still a mask at the thought that Corundel might yet betray him and paint herself as his victim and unwilling dupe. “How interesting. What fable has she told you?”

  Matt smiled, amused. If courtiers knew one thing better than any, it was how to lie—but this one wasn't very intelligent. After all, you had to be pretty dumb to commit a kidnapping on spec. “All Corundel told us was the name of the shaman who arranged the kidnapping with you—but for her to know that much, she had to have been in on the whole operation. In fact, she had to have been the one who set the whole thing up.”

  This last was more a guess than a deduction, but it worked. Sikander said angrily, “It was my idea as much as hers!”

  Pride, or a last ditch attempt to shield a lady? Matt gave the man credit for a scrap of gallantry and said, “No point in trying to protect her now. We know the outline of what happened. You might help undo some of your damage, though, if you told us the details.”

  Sikander deflated with a sigh and started singing like a star tenor. Matt encouraged him with understanding noises and monosyllables, keeping the information flowing. When Sikander ran out of words and sat slumped in dejection, Matt said, “Well, I can't deny that you made a pretty thorough mess of things, but there's a chance we might be able to straighten them out. Did the horseman say anything at all about where the shaman was sending Balkis?”

  Sikander shook his head. “He said little but ‘thank you’ and ‘good-bye.’ I would guess he was openly a hireling.”

  “Sure,” Matt said. “Why should the shaman risk getting caught with the princess in his own hands? A lot easier to pay somebody else to do the dangerous stuff.”

  Sikander looked up, startled, wondering if he had been someone else's dupe. Perhaps the prince had wanted Balkis to disappear after all.

  Matt rose to go. “Well, thanks for your cooperation. I'll tell the king that you've seen the error of your ways and are trying to help.”

  Sikander gave him a sardonic smile. “What will that net for me? A quick death instead of a slow one?”

  “Well, it should save you from the torture chamber, at least— unless there's something you haven't told me?”

  “No!” Sikander declared, sitting bolt-upright.

  Matt nodded. “Nothing more to learn, no reason for torture— except simple revenge, of course, and I don't think that's Prester John's style. I'll recommend he keep you alive until we know whether to charge you with murder, or just kidnapping. With any luck, you'll still be alive to face Princess Balkis someday.” He turned thoughtful then. “Not sure that I wouldn't prefer the quick death, though … Well!” He forced a bright smile. “Let's hope for the best, shall we?”

  Then he was gone, and the cell door crashed behind him. Sikander doubled over, head in his hands, and spent half an hour wishing he had never been born.

  Corundel was more defiant but had even less to tell; like Sikander, all she knew was that the horseman had taken Balkis away. When Matt pointed out that she was under sentence of death and that the only questions were when, how, and at the hands of the royal executioner or of Balkis, Corundel caved in and told him that she had opened doors to lead Sikander to the horseman, and that the two of them watched him ride away, then went back into the palace to celebrate. She didn't say that talking to the shaman had been her idea, but she didn't say that Sikander had forced her into being his pawn, either. Matt left the jail with a scrap of respect for each of them, though it was buried under a thick pile of contempt.

  He briefly wondered why the guards hadn't noticed the horseman approach, then realized that a sorcerer who could provide the drug and the means of sending Balkis away could no doubt manage a spell of invisibility easily enough.

  Matt reported back to Prester John. “The shaman's name is Torbat,” he told him, “and his shop is in the northeastern quarter where the Radial Avenue of the Second Hour meets the Twelfth Ring Road.”

  Prester John, who sat at his desk, was impressed. “You are persuasive.”

  “Oh, I just recited a little spell before I went into each cell,” Matt told him. “I also hinted that you might give them each a quick death instead of a slow and painful one.”

  John frowned, affronted. “You made no promises in my name, I trust.”

  “No, just hinted,” Matt said, “though I did come out and say my report might influence you into keeping them alive until we could bring Balkis home.”

  “Why should I be so merciful?” John asked.

  “So you would know whether to charge them as accessories to murder or only as kidnappers,” Matt said. “Besides, if we do bring Balkis home none the worse for wear, we can just sentence them each to spend half an hour alone with her and see what happens.”

  Prester John looked surprised, then chuckled. “Yes, that would be appropriate.”

  “But for now let's concentrate on getting her back.”

  “Yes, quite so.” Prester John frowned. “How shall you search?”

  “Well, we know the shaman's name now, not just his address,” Matt said. “Sure, it's only his public name, not his private one, so I can't make him break out in boils or drop dead from a heart attack—but it should be enough to bring me to him, wherever he is.”

  Prester John gazed off into space, correlating the idea with what he knew of barbarian magic, which was substantial. Finally he nodded. “Yes, that should suffice. Let us repair to the workroom, Lord Wizard.”

  As Balkis, in the form of a cat, slept, small figures stepped forth from burrows under the roots of the pines, stretching and yawning. They wore robes, turbans, and sandals, but their skin was nut-brown. In the Allustria where she had grown up, they would have been called “brownies.” They looked around them in surprise.

  “What could have waked us at so unseemly an hour, Hurree?” one asked.

  Hurree spread his arms, starting to answer, but a white-bearded sprite spoke first. “It was the spirit of the grove. What moves?”

  “Nothing, now,” said an aged and creaky voice. The air seemed to thicken near one of the pines, then turned into a translucent figure that became more opaque with each step it took until it was solid, showing itself to be a stooped, wrinkled crone, leaning heavily on a knobbly stick. She gave of her life energy to her poor little trees, and though they gave back what little they could, it wasn't very much at all, so she was as stunted and twisted as they, her skin wrinkled and creased as bark. She was robed in garlands of brown needles that rustled as she hobbled forth. “That which moved now sleeps, by my blessing,” she told her brownies, “but she is wounded in head and side, and has need of your aid.” She pointed with her stick.

  The brownies looked, and saw a miserable bundle of fur rippled by the breeze that sifted through the boughs of the pines.

  Hurree caught his breath. “That cat is thick with magic!”

  The dryad nodded. “Dryad-magic, nixie-magic, brownie-magic—it would seem that magic has rubbed off on her from half the sprites in the world.”

  Hurree knelt beside the cat, small hand tracing the rent in her side. “How came she here?”

  “By more magic, surely,” the dryad told him. “I felt the tingling of it, I looked out into the meadow—and lo! There she was, not a cat but a maiden fair, and sick to her stomach, poor thing!”

  A brownie-woman parted
the veil from her face to ask, “A maiden?”

  The dryad nodded. “Even so, Lichi. The cows sensed that feeling of magic, too, and took fright. They moved toward the young woman, lowing to urge one another to defend—but the maiden, looking up, saw them, and lo! In an instant she had changed into a cat!”

  Hurree's breath hissed in. “Surely you needed no further proof she was magical!”

  “And surely that transformation must have disturbed the cows even more,” Lichi exclaimed.

  “It did, but the cat was better able to dodge their hooves than the woman would have been,” the dryad said.

  “Not able enough.” Hurree placed a hand lightly on the cat's head, feeling the swelling.

  “Well,” said the dryad, “the cat is alive, where the woman might have been trampled to death.”

  “True enough.” Lichi joined Hurree, passing her hands over the stiffened fur on the cat's side. She called to another brownie-woman, “Aid me, Alii!”

  Alii came to join her magic to Lichi's, mending the wound as two more brownie-men came to rest their hands on Hurree's shoulders, lending him their own magical energy as he healed the head-swelling, both inside and outside Balkis' skull.

  The dryad nodded, satisfied. “Find her some of those mice who keep gnawing at the roots of my trees,” she said, “and show her where the rocks have caught rainwater. When she is recovered, find her better shelter than this.”

  “We will, O Wise One,” Alii assured her.

  “Thank you, little friends.” Nodding in satisfaction, the dryad stepped back into a twisted trunk and disappeared.

  The brownies gathered around the sleeping cat, each giving a modicum of energy to mend bruised and torn tissue as Balkis' breathing deepened into a healthy and healing sleep.

  Matt expected a gloomy, windowless dungeon filled with arcane equipment and bottles of noisome concoctions. Instead he found a wide and airy chamber with tall windows and a worktable against one wall. Fragrant bunches of dried herbs hung over the workbench, and shelves above it did indeed contain bottles, but they held very ordinary things such as pebbles, iron pellets, salt, charcoal, and sulfur. The most exotic item he saw was a silvery liquid that had to be mercury. Oh, the workbench held a rack of vials, different sizes of flasks, an alembic, a crucible, and a mortar and pestle, but Matt knew them all from freshman chemistry.