There were noises during the night. Neither slept well till toward morning. When they rose, someone was tapping at their door. It proved to be a long-eared, potbellied imp, who handed them a sheet of parchment, grinned, and sped off down the corridor. Shea and Chalmers read:
“Sounds like a big occasion,” observed Shea. “Let’s go down to the great hall, and see who can we find.”
They found their way to a huge room whose stained-glass windows bore pictures of mystical signs grouped round centerpieces of knights in magical torment. Already five people were gathered at one end, talking earnestly. Shea recognized Busyrane, Dolon, and Duessa. He caught a fragment of a story Dolon was telling:
“—and I say he was no more than a bungling poursuivant, journeyman though he ranked. Imagine summoning up a devil, but leaving one corner of the pentagon open! He deserved no better than he got—ho-ho!—which was to have his head torn off by the demon’s red-hot pincers! Ha, here come my pair! Busyrane, do ’em the honors!”
The archimage bowed, first to Duessa and then to the new arrivals. “We are highly favored,” he said, “to present Master Reed de Chalmers, who has applied for elevation to the honorable state of mastership in our Chapter. He is most expert, most expert, in the production of singular monsters, also a man full of ideas for the benefit of our order. Also his apprentice, Harold de Shea.”
Was there a slight change in the voice on that last sentence? Shea could not be sure, and Duessa was curtsying, pronouncing in a fine contralto: “Enchanted, good magical sirs.” With that red hair she was certainly a beauty when she wanted to be gracious. If only—
Plop! A bare-necked vulture flopped through the window and lit beside them, then changed into a hook-nosed man in a long monk’s outfit. “The good Fripon!” exclaimed Dolon. “How wags the world with you?”
“By your leave, not well,” croaked the good Fripon, sadly. “I had all but trapped that wretch Belphebe when what does she do but get a counterspell from Cambina, then shoot an arrow through one of the best sprites I ever had. Curse her! She’s killing off the Losels, too.”
“I live for the day when I can tear her toenails out,” said Duessa venomously. Shea’s scalp tingled. A dust whirlwind that puffed in the window set everyone coughing, and dissolved into a short, fat man, who mopped his brow.
“Whew!” he said. “Fatiguing! Still it’s better than walking for a man of my figure. Hope you have an ample lunch, Busyrane. Always thinking of my belly, that’s me, Voulandoure, at your service. Ah, fair Duessa! And the good Fripon! Still cheating the grave-digger, my gloomy friend?” He poked Fripon’s ribs.
Now magicians began to pour into the hall, by window and door, so many of them Shea could not keep up with their names. The trumpet for the midday meal found him vainly trying to catch up—and also separated him from Chalmers, who was taken in tow to sit at the masters’ table.
Shea found himself next to a fuzzy-haired youth who said shyly: “Pray, generous sir, may I see your enchanted blade?”
“Huh?” said Shea. “But it—” before it occurred to him that no useful purpose would be served by disillusioning these people about the épée. He produced it and handed it over. The fuzzy young man waved it over the table, making noises of approval.
“I feel no sudden access of strength,” he remarked. “The spell must be very subtle. Or perhaps it is one you use on yourself—no, that could not be, for Cambina’s magic prevented the use of such spells at the tournament. Hey, Grimbald!” He reached across and touched the blue-jowled man on Shea’s other side. “He beat two of the most renowned knights of Faerie with this toothpick!”
“Aye,” replied the other, looking up from his plate, “including one of ours.” He addressed Shea directly. “Knew you not that Blandamour and Paridell, though they wear the Faerie livery, are in the service of this Chapter? Nay, you’re not a member—how could you? But ’ware both in the future.”
That explained a lot, thought Shea: the actions of the two knights, for one thing; and for another, why the magicians were so polite to him, though his rating was no more than that of an apprentice. There would be something practically supernatural about modern fencing technique to these people.
###
Busyrane had arranged his hair so that the light falling through the stained-glass window touched it to a halo. He might have been some kindly saint as he began:
“Magical sirs and ladies: many are the pleasures that have fallen to our lot, but none equal to that of beholding you here assembled beneath our humble roof to carry on the good name and high purpose of magic. Ah, how much better and brighter a world it were if all in it could but know you all—could but see you all. My friends—”
The afternoon was warm, the lunch had been ample, and Shea had a feeling of having heard something like this before. His eyelids began to weigh on him. The smooth voice rolled on:
“—in the days of King Huon of glorious and blessed memory, my friends, when we lived a more abundant life—”
Shea felt himself itching, now here, now there, now all over. He made one more effort to keep awake, then lapsed into an unashamed doze. He was aroused by a mild patter of applause. Busyrane’s place was taken by the keeper of ye archives, Courromont, a thin-lipped, bloodless-looking man, who hardly moved his mouth as he read:
“At the council of the Enchanters’ chapter on August 1st following the address of our beloved archimage six members were advanced in grade from apprentice to journeyman and one journeyman member to wit the esteemed Sournoy was advanced to the full rank of master magician it was furthermore decided to raise the annual dues from seven and a half to ten elfars papers were read at the professional session by Masters Magicians Malvigen and Denfero with various works of magical prowess in illustration it was furthermore resolved in the executive session to empower a special committee for drastic action against certain representatives of the Old Order whose activities have become threatening to wit the knight Sir Cambell and Belphebe of the Woods and the Princess Britomart the knights of the Chapter Blandamour and Paridell were accordingly—”
Shea came wide awake, but there were no details. Busyrane merely asked if it were moved and seconded that the minutes be accepted. They were.
Voulandoure’s fat face shone greasily in the heat as he droned off figures and urged members to pay their dues on time. What could those plans for drastic action have been? Presumably the late Malvigen had tried one of them when he got Belphebe’s arrow through him, but what else?
His attention was snapped back by Busyrane’s use of his name: “—proposed that the magicians Reed de Chalmers and Harold de Shea be admitted with the ranks of master magician and apprentice. If these gentlemen will kindly leave the room—”
Outside, Shea said softly: “Did you hear what they said about Belphebe?”
“Dear me, yes. Duessa seems quite determined on that point. She used a most vulgar term in speaking of her—one normally employed in the . . . uh . . . propagation of dogs. When—”
“What are they going to do? Specifically?” Shea’s voice was urgent.
“I—” The door opened and a voice called: “Master Reed de Chalmers.”
Shea was left to fidget for five minutes before being summoned. Busyrane grasped him by the hand at the door and led him to the front of the hall. “We present to you the apprentice Harold de Shea as a member of this Chapter,” he said. “A very worthy magical person, adept in the production of strange monsters, adroit in enchantments connected with the profession of arms. Apprentice Harold de Shea”—he turned toward the new member—“as members of a high intellectual calling we despise the silly ceremonies of admission such as the court uses for its orders of knighthood. Therefore, we will merely bid you welcome; but doubtless the other apprentices will have something to say to you tomorrow night after the Black Mass.”
Voulandoure came over and squeezed Shea’s hand in his own thick, moist ones. “My ’gratulations, also, magical sirs!” He lowered his voice. �
�May I point out the initiation fee—”
“Ahem,” said Chalmers, who had joined the group. “How much?”
“Fifty elfars for yourself, Master Magician Reed, and twenty-five for ’Prentice Harold.”
Chalmers looked slightly stricken. He fished out the money bag. His face showed some relief, but not much, when its contents proved adequate. “I should think,” he remarked, “that with so many fine magicians about, you’d have no difficulty in conjuring up . . . uh . . . all necessary funds.”
A shadow crossed the face of ye keeper of ye moneys. “Alas, magical sir, our great problem! ’Tis a department involving the use of the philosophers’ stone and the blood of infants, this much we know. But our research in the question has been interrupted by the activities of that curst court and the Companions, and I fear me we shall never succeed till we rid ourselves of them.”
“Aye,” said Dolon. “The one who came nearest the solution was the enchantress Acrasia. She did make a conjured gold that was all but permanent; met every test, and would only turn to ashes when one pronounced a Pater Noster. But where’s Acrasia now? Eh? Dead, down and drowned by one of Gloriana’s Companions, a murrain on them all!”
“Good Master Dolon!” It was Busyrane. “The professional meeting is called, and I doubt not the other masters are as eager as we ourselves to hear your paper.”
Shea found the fuzzy-haired youth at his elbow. “D’you play at checks? We ’prentices are left much to our own devisings when the masters gabble.”
“Checks?”
“Aye, you know, king, queen, knight, fool, pawn, check and you’re mate. I’m hand in glove with one of Busyrane’s imps, who’ll furnish us a mug or two of musty ale to pass the time while we play.”
It sounded an attractive program. But Shea remembered that chess game afterward. The fuzzy-haired apprentice was not naturally a good player. Shea beat him in the first two games easily, winning the small bets the youth insisted on “to make the sport more interesting.” Then the musty ale or the youth’s magic—too late Shea remembered what profession he was an apprentice in—rose up and bit him. The fuzzy one’s pieces turned up in the most unexpected places, executing the most astonishing gambits and combinations. With every new defeat Shea grew more annoyed. Whether through annoyance or the musty ale, he began offering to double the bets for the next one.
When the doors at the end of the hall were flung open and the master magicians emerged, the fuzzy youth was remarking gaily: “That makes eighty-six elfars, sixteen you stand in my debt. Ha-ha, that reminds me. Did I ever tell you about the journeyman Sligon, who owed my master, Voulandoure, sixty elfars over a box of dice? He refused to pay—said he couldn’t—even when Voulandoure sent him a plague of boils. Well, wasn’t it funny, when Sligon was playing with his own cat one day, that he should turn into a fish? I say a good magician should never lack for money, when there are people who can be kidnapped and ransomed. Don’t you agree?”
“That’s right,” said Shea with a heartiness which he hoped didn’t sound too hollow. He got up to join Chalmers.
The elder psychologist was looking pleased with himself. “A trifle harrowing that session, but gratifyingly informative,” he said as they went toward their rooms. “I really feel I’ve learned something about quantitative control. In fact, I’m confident that in a few months’ research I can learn enough not only to transform Florimel and to rejuvenate myself, but also to . . . uh . . . revolutionize the entire practice of magic in Faerie, to make its benefits available to all.”
“Yes, but”—Shea looked worried—“did you find out what they intend to do about Belphebe?”
“I gather that that is a matter for the . . . uh . . . executive session of tomorrow. But as I understand the outlines of the plan, it is not to direct the enchantments against her in person. She’s protected against them. They intend rather to place spells on the two or three places where she sleeps, with the design of causing her to fall into so deep a slumber that she can be captured.”
They paused on Chalmers’ threshold. He added: “However, I wouldn’t worry about the young woman’s . . . uh . . . safety, Harold. As I understand it she is to be brought here, and I am sure that as a member of the Chapter I can persuade them not to harm her. In fact—”
“For the love of Mike, Doc, are you throwing in with these guys, or just plain daffy? Didn’t you hear Duessa talking about pulling Belphebe’s toenails out, come the Revolution, and Dolon mentioning the torture chamber? Wake up! You’re being an old fool!”
“Harold, I must request you not to use such intemperate language. After all, I’m somewhat your senior, and I require the uninterrupted use of all facilities as well as your own cordial cooperation to put this matter on a scientific basis, in a few months I shall be in a position to effect an industrial revolution in magic—”
“Theory! Months! I might have known that’s what you’d be after! Can’t you realize somebody’s in danger?”
“I shall certainly give my most earnest attention to persuading the other members of the Chapter that this young woman to whom you are so attached is innocuous, and—”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Forget it! Good night.” Shea stalked out, more angry with Chalmers than he had ever been before. He did not hear the velvety click of the Judas window in Chalmers’ room. Nor could he overhear the two men in the secret passage that led to that window.
Busyrane’s voice was bland. “We were good enough to warn you that the young man was a suspicious character and mingled somehow in the affairs of the court.”
“Can it be that my judgment, usually so keen, was altogether thrown off?” asked Dolon.
“Oh, you were right about the older. He’s a proper magician and devoted to the Chapter. But the younger—he’ll bear more than watching. A friend of Belphebe, forsooth!”
Nine
Shea lay in bed, staring at the black ceiling. No use trying to get the Doc to do anything. His heart was in the right place. But between his devotion to Florimel and his devotion to theory he could not be convinced that these enchanters, who talked so glibly of intellectual achievements, were bloody-minded racketeers who intended to put Belphebe, Britomart, and a lot of others to a slow and intricate death.
Shea shuddered as he thought of it. Whatever was done to save them, he would have to do, quickly. Yes, and to keep Chalmers from turning the products of his really fine scientific mind over to these rascals.
The castle was silent. He slipped out of bed, dressed, and buckled the faithful épée over his shoulder. It would not be much use against enchantments. But as long as the enchanters themselves believed it had magic power, it would help.
The door swung open noiselessly. There was no light in the corridor. The stone floor was cold under Shea’s feet. His soft leather boots made soundless progress. If he kept one hand along the wall, he thought he could find the way to the great hall, and so out. Step—step—the hand that had been following the wall touched nothingness. An appalling odor of cockatrice assailed his nostrils. Evidently the door of somebody’s laboratory was open. He went down to hands and knees and slithered past an inch at a time, hoping the creature would not wake up.
So. Here was the head of the stair. He took one step down, two—and felt something soft touch his ankles. Another step and the something soft was clear to his waist, catching at him. It felt ropy and vaguely slimy, a whole tangle of slime—cobwebs! For a moment Harold Shea felt unreasoning panic, as it seemed that going ahead and turning back would be equally fatal. Then he realized that this would be some of Busyrane’s magic, part of the ordinary castle safeguards, and of no special significance.
Yet what would cut through or destroy cobwebs? Fire. He had no fire. But in his previous adventure in Scandinavian myth, Surt’s giants had made use of flaming swords, and he had the épée. With an incantation to make use of the law of similarity it might become a flaming sword. On that narrow, stone-walled spiral staircase it was altogether unlikely that anyone would
be able to see the light.
With the ghostly fingers of the cobwebs clutching at his legs, Shea stood on the stair and thought as he never had before of a spell:
“Sword, sword, sword that is now my salvation,
Make me a light to cut through these cobwebs;
Be like Surt’s sword to cut through this maze.”
He could feel the hilt growing warm.
“Help my escape to reach consummation;
In the name of Durandal, help me to be free.”
It was not outrageously good poetry, but the hilt was so hot that he snatched it out. A smoky red flame ran down the blade and dropped from the point, revealing the whole stairwell from wall to wall and as high as Shea stood, filled with a solid mass of the hideous gray material. A man could smother in it easier than not. Busyrane left nothing to chance.
Shea slashed at the stuff with the flaming épée. It shriveled left and right before him, back against the wall with hissing, foul-smelling flames running along the strands. He advanced slowly, cutting one step at a time. As he reached the bottom and the last cobwebs, the fire in the blade went out. He was in the great hall; but a few steps carried him through it, across the forecourt and to the gate.
A moon looked down out of a cloudless sky. Shea cursed it softly to himself, wondering whether he ought to take a chance on crossing the open stretch between gate and the shelter of the trees before it set. He decided to try it.
Bending low, he scuttled rapidly across the space, his cloak flapping like a vampire’s wings. He made it without stumbling and looked back. The castle had disappeared. There was nothing visible but stony ground with the hut in the middle.
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 23