The Complete Compleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague deCamp

  Water, charcoal from the remains of one of the Da Derga’s cooking fires, and a spell produced a double handful of neat patty-shaped molds of maple sugar, which Shea rather dubiously guessed would do. The unicorn sniffed suspiciously from a distance, then under Belphebe’s coaxing teetered close enough to taste. It munched meditatively, wiggling its ears, then reached out its muzzle for more. Shea fed it another piece, then ostentatiously put the remainder in his pocket.

  “All right,” he said, “we’re off. Say, Belphebe, maybe you better hitch J. Edgar Hoover’s feet to the unicorn and haul him off before the Da Derga come back to see what happened.” He glanced at the glowering Dolon. “Two hours’ truce, now, and you can thank Heaven they took her bow away.”

  The dark was beginning to close in. As they reached the road, Dolon worked a spell and produced a horse. He mounted.

  “Hey!” said Shea. “What about us?”

  “I say a pox on you, ’prentice, for a rebellious rogue. Wend afoot and learn what it is to flout the great Dolon.”

  Shea put on a sly grin. “You don’t understand, master. Don’t you think it pays for the Chapter to have someone that the opposition thinks is a real man of honor? I’m just building myself up for the job. When we get ready to put something really good over on that bunch and catch a lot of them at once, instead of just these two, I’ll come in handy.”

  Dolon considered a moment, then a smile ran round his red, full lips. “Oho! Sits the wind so? You want that red-polled baggage, eh? Well, when we capture her, you shall have her before she goes to the torture chamber—if the Chapter chooses to admit you. For I tell you fairly I doubt you are skilled enough in the more practical forms of magic.”

  Chalmers spoke up. “Ahem. You confessed, Dolon, that you of the Chapter occasionally . . . uh . . . work at cross-purposes.”

  “Aye. ’Tis the nature of things. For look you, magic is an art disorderly.”

  “But it isn’t! We can show you how to change all that.”

  “Here’s strange doctrine! Do you jest?”

  “Not at all. Didn’t you notice the Druids’ methods of doing magic?”

  “Those priests of the Da Derga? Magic they have, aye, but so meager a sort any lout can outdo them.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s not what they do, but how they do it. One man invokes their gods; another changes the altar from wood to stone, and so on. One man per function, and all timed to work together. That’s real organization. Now, if . . . uh . . . your Chapter were organized like that—”

  Shea cut in: “You’ve been trying to break down Queen Gloriana’s government and set up a council of magic to rule in its place, haven’t you?” Nobody had told him that, but it seemed a reasonable guess.

  “That we have; but the others worked singly, without any such leaders as myself to guide them.”

  “But even you, master, you’re only one, and can’t be everywhere at once. As it stands, your Chapter is a professional guild. It keeps you from cutting each other’s throats by competition, but that’s all. You won’t get anywhere just bopping off an occasional knight. We can show you how to make a real organization out of it with all the parts working together as smoothly as the Faerie knights work together. The beauty of such an organization is that when it gets such a man of genius as yourself to guide it, everyone in the organization becomes a kind of extension of the leader’s personality. It’s just as though your Chapter were made into twenty-one Dolons. Gloriana’s government could never stand against that.”

  “Ho-ho!” cried Dolon. “Now this proves once more that I am, as some are good enough to say, the great Dolon, and practically infallible in my judgment of men. I knew from the beginning that your minds held some noble and worthy plan for the advancement of the Chapter and the cause of magic. But I was forced to test you to bring it out. So—we are friends again, and I’ll seal the bond by bringing forth your beasts and belongings.”

  He wheeled his own horse behind a tree. He worked a spell that sent a pillar of smoke towering through the branches to catch the last rays of the sun. From beneath it Adolphus and Gustavus trotted out to stand in the twilight beside their masters, the former with Shea’s épée at the saddle. Dolon came back, grinning as though at some private joke.

  “I shall present you to the Chapter as specialists in strange beasts,” he remarked amiably. “That monster you rode to our rescue was as fearsome a hobgolin as ever I saw, friend Harold. You see, I have the custom, not common among great men, of being affable to my juniors.”

  It was growing very dark under the trees, and the horses began to stumble on the ruinous road. Another hour of riding brought them to an opening. Midway along it and fairly close to the road, a thatched hut stood in the inadequate moonlight. One window was lighted.

  “The castle of Busyrane,” remarked Dolon.

  “It seems somewhat . . . uh . . . exiguous,” offered Chalmers timidly.

  “Ho-ho! You know not our archimage, who is a master of show and illusion, and sets such gulls to catch the unwary. Do but watch.”

  As Dolon spoke the moon was blotted out. Shea heard a flutter of wings. Something brushed past his face. There was a sensation of insectlike crawling on his left hand that made him snatch it from the bridle. A long, low ululating shriek rose from out of the dark. The horse quivered uncertainly beneath him. Its hoofs clacked on stone in the velvet black. Down at stirrup level a face appeared. It had huge, drooping ears and ragged teeth fixed in a permanent grin above the pendulous lower lip. There was no source of light for it to be seen by, nothing but that face floating by itself.

  “The master makes you welcome and bids you dismount,” mouthed the face indistinctly.

  A clawlike hand reached up to help Shea from his mount. Though by now well inured to shocks, he could not help a shiver at the clammy cold touch. Dolon chuckled behind him. He shook off the horrors and followed the guidance of the corpselike fingers down a corridor of utter dark. Something rustled, and he caught the sickening odor of cockatrice. A door closed. He was standing in a big room, blinking in a flood of light, with the other two beside him.

  An elderly man, wearing a palmer’s robe like Chalmers’, came forward to greet them. He smiled graciously, “Welcome, good Dolon! To what fortunate chance owe we your presence here before the meeting?”

  “To the same chance that brings me here with these two stout fellows, whom I rescued but today from Artegall’s curst clutches.” This version was a trifle startling, but Shea had the sense to lay low as Dolon described his thrilling rescue of Shea and Chalmers. He went on: “Most noble archimage, a plan has occurred to me. As you know, people are good enough to say that I have a talent for plans amounting almost to genius.

  “Surely, noble archimage, you are sib to the fact that you are but one and cannot be all places at once. As it stands, you head the Chapter well; but it is a professional guild. It prevents our cutting each other’s throats by competition, but no more. What we need is an organization that will work together as the Faerie knights work together. It would be as though our mastership were composed of twenty-one Busyranes. Gloriana’s government would have ill hap against it, eh?

  “By the favor of fortune, I fell in with these two, desirous of admission to the Chapter. With that skill at judging character for which I am well known, I saw at once that they were experts in exactly the form of organization we need. I present you, therefore, Reed de Chalmers, magician, and Harold de Shea, apprentice, as worthy members of our society. In magic, their art is the conjuration of singular and unheard-of beasts. The Blatant One himself has fled before their spells.”

  “Enchanted, magical sirs,” said Busyrane, with a polite bow. “Your application shall receive the most earnest attention. We presume, good Dolon, you have heard the sad news?”

  “That have I not.”

  “Poor Malvigen is slain—spitted with an arrow by the she-devil, Belphebe.”

  “The curst vile tripping wench!” Dolon turned to Shea and
Chalmers. “Magical sirs, I ask you, is this not a hard thing? Here’s a man who spent a lifetime in the study and practice of magic; Malvigen. Made himself a great specialist in erotic dreams, excelling even the great Dolon in that one art. Now he’s snuffed out in a second, like a wild boar, and for why? Because his attainments violate what those at the court choose to call morality.”

  ###

  Shea woke from a dream of being shrunk to a stature of one inch and swallowed by a snake. His clothes lay over a chair. They had evidently been given a magical laundering and mending, since they looked as good as new, in contrast to their worn and dirty state of the previous evening.

  Chalmers came in. His clothes also were clean, and he looked younger than Shea remembered having seen him. He burst out: “I’ve found Florimel!”

  “Shhh! For Pete’s sake not so loud. Tell me about it.”

  “She was walking on the battlements. Really, this place is quite large when seen by daylight. Busyrane was most affable. It appears he intends to use her for the object—perfectly legitimate from his point of view—of causing dissension—”

  “Okay, Doc. Okay! I get it. You’re all excited. What did you really find out? Who is this Florimel, anyhow?”

  “She was . . . uh . . . manufactured out of snow by a person called the Witch of Riphœa, as a duplicate or double of the genuine Florimel, who seems to have disappeared. Busyrane tells me it is at least theoretically possible to find a magical spell that will endow her with a genuine human body. He was most kind, most kind. I am afraid we may have misjudged—”

  “Yeah, he promised he’d help you fix her up, I suppose.”

  Chalmers was suddenly dignified. “As a matter of fact, he did. But I cannot see how this affects—”

  Shea jumped up. “Oh, my God! Next thing you’ll be selling out to the magicians and letting Gloriana’s crowd go chase themselves—as long as you can make this snow girl.”

  “That’s not fair, Harold! After all, you were the one who insisted that we go ahead with our campaign, when I was willing to—”

  “Yeah? Who had the bright idea of getting pally with the magicians in the first place? Who got up this marvelous plan—”

  “Young man, let me tell you that you’re grossly unreasonable as well as grossly reckless. You’ve placed us in one predicament after another by getting into fights for no good reason. You force my hand by making me use spells before I’ve tried them out. Now, when I wish to embark on a really important scientific experiment—”

  “I suppose it never occurred to you that Busyrane might be trying to suck you in to work for him by means of this girl. He controls her, and—”

  “Shh! You needn’t shout!”

  “I’m not shouting!” roared Shea.

  A knock on the door made them both go silent. “Uh . . . ahem . . . come in!” said Chalmers.

  Busyrane stood on the threshold, rubbing his hands. “Good morrow, magical sirs. We heard your conversation and bethought us there might be something our humble household might supply or our feeble powers obtain for your use.”

  Chalmers made a good recovery. “We were wondering—You know, the job of providing organization requires a special . . . uh . . . methodology. The science of combinational magic . . . uh . . . uh—”

  Shea took over. “What we mean is, could we have the loan of some laboratory facilities?”

  “Oh, certes, that lies within our gift. We have a disused chamber that would admirably serve. A few prisoners, even, on which you may experiment. We shall be happy, also, to furnish you with a cockatrice. If your honors will have the goodness to follow our poor person—”

  When the head enchanter had left them, Shea and Chalmers drew deep breaths. They had watched him for the least sign of suspicion, but he had displayed none—so far.

  Chalmers said: “Let me offer my apologies for . . . uh . . . my hastiness.”

  “That’s all right, Doc. I shouldn’t have flown off the handle. And I’m sorry for running you ragged by being reckless.”

  They shook hands, like a pair of shame-faced small boys. “What’s the program now?” asked Shea.

  “Well . . . ahem . . . I’d like to restore Florimel—that is, to give her a human body. Also, she might not find a person of my years peculiarly congenial. I observe Busyrane is able to assume almost any age he wishes.”

  “Ha—” Shea had started to laugh, but stopped as Chalmers gave him a hurt look. “After all, Harold, what’s so heinous about wishing to be young?”

  “It isn’t that, Doc. I just remembered something you said—about amorous adventure having few attractions for a person of your age.”

  Chalmers smiled in mild triumph. “You forget that if I succeed in the rejuvenating process, I shall no longer be a person of my age!”

  Eight

  “Good gracious,” said Chalmers. “That’s the second time you’ve wandered off the incantation! Whatever is on your mind, Harold?”

  Shea stared absently at the big steel cage filling half the laboratory. Into it, with the aid of a pot containing a small fire, they were trying to conjure a dragon—one dragon. “Nothing much,” he replied, “except I’m wondering about this flock of bogymen that’s due to show up for the meeting tomorrow.”

  It was only half the truth. Shea had not given up his idea of a grand assault on the place and the capture of all the enchanters at once. The previous evening, without telling Chalmers, he had been out to look over the ground.

  At the precise point where the gate began to fade from view, with rocks and trees on the other side of the building showing through it, he stopped and took careful bearings on the nearby landmarks. He chuckled internally over the thought that these invisible castles wouldn’t be practical if the people of Faerie knew a little elementary surveying. Then he wedged the gate open with a small stone and slipped off among the trees.

  There he cautiously whistled the tune Belphebe had taught him. No result. He went through it a second time and a third, wondering how long it would be before his absence was noticed. He was just about to give up when he saw a unicorn, apparently the same one Belphebe had ridden, peering from behind a tree. It sniffed suspiciously before coming forward to mouth one of the maple-sugar lumps.

  Shea wrote:

  DEAREST BELPHEBE:

  We are at Busyrane’s castle. It lies about two hours’ ride along the road from the place where we got away from the Da Derga. Looks like a hut till you turn off the road east and follow a track till you get to a big oak tree, the biggest in the neighborhood, in line with a hill that has a round top. Then you can see the castle. Could you arrange to be in the neighborhood in about forty-eight hours? I’ll call the unicorn at that time and if you’re riding it, will see you. Be careful about the magicians, will you?

  H.S.

  He impaled the note on the unicorn’s horn and shooed the animal away. Now, he thought, if I make a break from the castle, I’ll have a guide. If I don’t, at least I’ll see her again—

  That was last night. During the morning, he was more and more nervous and preoccupied, and now for the second time he had wandered from the incantation he and Chalmers were trying to work. “Nothing much,” he had answered Chalmers’ inquiry. Chalmers glanced at him shrewdly and hummed:

  “Heighdy! Heighdy!

  Misery me, lackadaydee!

  He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,

  As he sighed for the love of a ladye!”

  Shea looked at his partner sharply, but Chalmers’ expression was bland. How much did he suspect?

  But Chalmers was wrapped up in the task. “Now,” he said, “let’s try again. ‘By Fafhir and Python, Midgardsormr and Yang—’ ” the incantation rolled out. The smoke from the fire in the cage thickened, and the amateur enchanters went on, ready to yell the counterspell Chalmers had worked out if the thing got out of hand.

  It was a variant on the original dragon spell, with wording and preparations slightly changed. There was a shrill metallic hiss and a
minor convulsion in the smoke. The incantation stopped. The incantators stood gaping.

  They had produced a dragon all right. One dragon, not a hundred. But this dragon was ten inches long, with batwings and a prominent sting on the end of its tail. It breathed fire.

  The bars of the cage had been made strong enough to hold a dragon of conventional size. But this little horror fluttered up to them, squeezed through, and flew straight at the experimenters.

  “Yeow!” yelled Shea, as a blast of flame from its jaws singed the hair off the back of his hand.

  “Awk!” shrieked Chalmers as the sting got him in the ankle. They tumbled over each other and dashed around the laboratory, Shea brandishing his épée and Chalmers swinging a pestle. The dragonlet dodged past them and flew through the door into the corridor. There was a rustle and a heavy clank.

  Shea went down the corridor. He came back with his face a trifle white.

  “The cockatrice looked at it,” he said, and held out a perfect stone dragon, ten inches long.

  “Put it down,” said Chalmers gloomily. He hobbled around, looking for something to put on his stung ankle. “Damnation, Harold, if there were only some way to control these things quantitatively—”

  “I thought that was it,” replied Shea. “What went wrong to give us that animated blowtorch?”

  “I don’t know. The only . . . uh . . . certitude is that we got our decimal point off again. We got point oh one dragon instead of a hundred dragons. I confess, the solution eludes me. The calculus of classes contains no aspect of quantitative accuracy—”

  The rest of the day gave them a sea horse three feet long and, after some effort, a cask to put it in; six stuffed owls with blue glass eyes; and finally a large and amiable tomcat with nine tails. The last experiment found a moon looking in the castle window, so they gave up and went to bed. Chalmers murmured sadly that if he tried to give Florimel a human body in the present state of his knowledge, he’d probably make her into a set of lovely but embarrassing Siamese triplets.