The Complete Compleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague deCamp

  “Yeah, I see. You’re in a tough spot all right.”

  The magician clawed at Shea’s arm. “Yet it is well said: ‘There is no door but a key may unlock it.’ Verily, I have not seen my brother’s son so content with his lot for many months as when he looked upon your exercises this morning. Doubtless you have a spell to preserve you from death by arms?”

  It occurred to Shea that he had never in his life been more politely invited to let himself be killed. But he said: “What keeps Lord Roger here? If he’s so keen on getting out and breaking somebody’s head, why doesn’t he just walk through the door?”

  “In truth, that is a question asked with the answer already known, for it is not hidden from me that you are aware of the pentacles of opposition.”

  “I get it. This is a kind of gilded hoosegow. You don’t think you can keep Sir Reed and me in that way, do you?”

  This time Atlantès went through the formula of wringing his hands. “May dogs eat my flesh if I ever held such a thought! Nay, auspicious sir, should you wish to hunt in those mountains, where often I myself have had good sport when the sap of youth was in me, it would give pleasure to your slave to provide a hunter for company. And should you wish to sport with the light of Islam, the pentacles can be let down.”

  He certainly was persistent. “No thanks, not right now,” said Shea.

  The graybeard nudged him and chuckled lecherously. “Think well on it, my lord. It has reached my ears that there be maidens among the villages more dainty than gazelles, and not all hunting is done with the bow.”

  “No thanks, O fount of wisdom,” said Shea again, wondering how much of his statement of the prophecy was true. “Right now I’m much more interested in Florimel and Doc’s—that is, Sir Reed’s—project for her. Business before pleasure, you know. How are you coming along on that, by the way?”

  Atlantès went through his breast-beating routine again. “There is no god but God! It has not been revealed to me how this knot may be unloosed, though I have summoned up legions of the Jann.”

  “Maybe I could help a little,” said Shea. “I know a fair amount of magic, and once in a while I can do things that even Sir Reed doesn’t pull off.”

  “In sooth, it were a greater wonder than burning water were matters otherwise, O master of magic. With joy and goodwill will I summon you when the hour comes that you can aid me. Yet for the present there is no aid that can be given so great as that of the contentment of my brother’s son.”

  Again! Would this little schemer ever let up trying to get Shea shortened by a head? Shea chose to ignore the last part of the remark. “Along what lines are you working? We might check results against each other.”

  “If it could be so, it were the delight of my heart and the expansion of my bosom. But it is unlawful for one of our religion to initiate other than true Muslims in the magical rites; were I to do so, you would instantly be torn in pieces by an ifrit stronger than a lion and with tusks three feet in length.” The little man seemed to have had enough. He started for the stairs, the motion of his feet beneath the long robe making him look oddly like a centipede.

  At the head of the stairs he turned to bow another farewell. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, for he held up a hand. “O auspicious sir,” he called, “take warning. These peaks be ominous; very pillars of mischance. Let the hand of friendship avert the stroke of calamity, and in the name of Allah, I pray you, do not let down the pentacles nor go forth without help from me and mine.”

  The afternoon light was already beginning to throw panels of shadow among the higher summits. Shea walked on around the battlements, thinking of where Belphebe might be in this world, and longing for her high spirits. Damn Doc Chalmers anyway for getting them into this jam! It was a jam, too. That farewell of Atlantès, though couched in a tone of appeal, came as close to a veiled threat as he had ever heard. Suppose he did lower the pentacles and walk out, what would the old goat do? Hardly let loose the wonder of the age on him. That would run against the prophecy—if there was a prophecy. Shea thought about the question as he picked his way past a clanging iron shot-tower, and reached the conclusion that the prophecy was probably quite real. Atlantès was clever enough to run a double bluff by mixing a piece of important truth with evasions and half-truths in order to steer an opponent away from the former.

  The only thing he could count on, however, was that the magician was putting the heat on his guests in the matter of finding a cure for Roger’s boredom. Shea considered the question for a moment. The big lug appeared to care for nothing but fighting; couldn’t there be some way of meeting the wish vicariously? Back in Ohio, when children became problems along this line, the matter could be taken care of with books of adventure. That clearly wouldn’t do here; or—and Shea mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner—toy soldiers.

  Certainly there ought to be somebody around Castle Carena with skill enough to carve passable small figures of fighting men, and he and Chalmers between them should be able to animate them magically enough to enable them to serve as miniature armies. The thought of the perfect paladin ordering battalions of six-inch wooden knights about the courtyard struck him as so delightful that he slapped the edge of the battlement and laughed. At that moment someone plucked his sleeve.

  It was one of the castle servants, this time with the head of a bird—a very large bird, with a great round head and a long bill like one of Tenniel’s borogoves.

  “What’s the trouble?” asked Shea.

  Although the creature seemed to understand, its only answer was to open the beak for a kind of whistling bark. It pulled at his arm insistently until he followed, looking over its shoulder from time to time and whistling encouragingly as it led him down the stairs, along one of the metal corridors, and left him face to face with Polacek.

  “Hi, Harold,” said the latter cheerfully, with the air of an inventor about to give birth to the atom-powered spaceship. “Say, you guys need me around places like this. I got hold of one of those hobgoblins that will find all the stuff we want. The only trouble is I can’t find her!”

  “What stuff? Whom?”

  “The little dark one that did the dance last night. All I got is her name: Sumurrud, or something like that. And what kind of stuff do you think? Tonsil oil, of course.”

  “You get around fast, don’t you? Lead on to the liquor, but you’re out of luck on the girlfriend. If Roger hasn’t got her in his room giving her the works just to spite you, Atlantès has probably sent her back where she came from by magic.”

  “For the love of St. Wenceslaus! I never thought of that.” The Rubber Czech’s face looked annoyed. “I’ll cook up a spell on that guy that will make him—”

  “No!”

  “All right, how about this? Suppose I go to Atlantès right off the arm, and ask him can he send that little number back to Ohio. With a build like hers—”

  “No! We’re in enough trouble now. You don’t even know her, Votsy.”

  “But—”

  Shea sighed. “For an educated man you’ve got the most proletarian sexual behavior pattern—”

  “ ’Smatter with you; all worn out already?” said Polacek nastily, leading the way down a circular staircase in one of the castle towers. As this point in the argument was reached, so was a scullery, where the goblin, a purple-skinned object with an oversized head and spindly little legs, was at his job of dishwashing. In one corner lay a large gaunt hound with a dish between his forepaws. The goblin held up a dirty plate, repeated a formula, and whistled. Instantly the dog reacted by licking the dish before him. As he did so the detritus disappeared from the plate held by the goblin.

  “Guk!” said Polacek. “How do you like your dinner?”

  Shea grinned. “Don’t be squeamish. The stuff gets from the outside of the plate to the inside of the dog without touching a thing.”

  The goblin waddled over to them with a crablike gait.

  “Got it, Odoro?” asked Polacek with a wi
nk. “He wants some too.”

  “Can get,” said Odoro. “You got money, uh? Me want.”

  They went to Chalmers’ laboratory for the money. At their knock there was a rustling from within, and when they entered, Florimel was some distance from Chalmers with her dress slightly rumpled and both of them looking hangdog. The doctor tendered some odd-looking square coins without comment.

  As they made their way back to their own room, Shea laughed. “To see those two, you’d think it was a crime to hold a girl on your lap here.”

  “He’s probably never done it before,” remarked Polacek. “Well, he can have that human snowball if he wants her; I’ll take that little Sumurrud. Did you know she was giving me the eye?”

  The goblin joined them almost at once, producing from under one arm a small leather bottle wrapped in a ragged piece of discarded turban.

  Polacek gave him some of the odd-looking coins, each of which the being tested with fanglike teeth. As he turned to go, Shea said: “Just a minute Odoro.” He had taken hold of the bottle. “Your master is pretty tough about liquor, isn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, awful. Law of Prophet.” Odoro touched a hand to his forehead.

  “What would happen if he found out you had a supply and were selling it to people?”

  The goblin shuddered. “Anathema, second class. Redhot pincers inside.” His grin vanished. “You no tell, no?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Odoro paled to lavender and made a shifting motion from one foot to the other that turned into a series of hops. “Oh, you no do! I do you boon! So do no knightly!” he squealed. “Here, you no want wine, you give me back!”

  He danced up to Shea, reaching. Shea held the bottle high over his head and did a snap-pass to Polacek, who caught it like a downfield end. “Easy, easy,” said Shea. “Remember I’m a magician too, and I can turn you into a red ant if I want to. This is evidence. All I want is a little information, and if you give it to us you needn’t worry about our telling anything.”

  “No got information,” said Odoro sullenly. His eyes ran round and round the room from a swiveling head.

  “No? Votsy, you go find Atlantès and tell him we’ve got a bootlegger here, while I keep an eye on—Oh, you don’t want him to go? Maybe you do know a thing or two? I thought likely. Now then, is there a prophecy about Roger?”

  “Yes—yes. Nasty prophecy. If he go out before full moon he join infidels, fight true believers. Inshallah!”

  “Now, isn’t that nice! All right, why doesn’t Atlantès let Roger out just a little way? He’s a wizard and would know how to keep him from going too far.”

  “Afraid Duke Astolph. He magician too; stole hippogriff.”

  “That clears up one point anyway. But look here, if Roger’s so anxious to get out, why doesn’t he just make it hot for Atlantès? Cut off his head or something?”

  “Not know. Swear beard of Prophet, no know. Think Atlantès do something with—you know—mind—” Odoro pointed to his head—“drive Roger like horse. But Roger not got much mind, so hard to—uh—drive.”

  Shea laughed. “That’s about what I thought. Give him another nickel, Votsy. You see, Odoro, you stick with us and you’ll be all right. Now, what’s Atlantès up to with Florimel?”

  “Prophecy. Find in magic book.”

  “I daresay. What prophecy?”

  “He lose Roger by woman knight, come on hippogriff.”

  Belphebe was out there somewhere in the hills, and so was the hippogriff. “But what does Florimel have to do with that?”

  “Not know. Think maybe he change her shape with woman knight, burn her up, poof!”

  “A fine kettle of fish. What kind of spell will he use?”

  “Not know.”

  “You know about magic, don’t you?”

  “Not know that. Atlantès, he very good magician.”

  “Okay. Votsy, suppose you ask the very good magician to come—”

  “Not know! Not know! Me ignorant!” wailed Odoro, beginning to hop again.

  “Maybe he really doesn’t know,” suggested Polacek.

  “Maybe. And maybe he gets a break for that crack about Roger. Run along, Odoro. You say nothing and we’ll say nothing.”

  “Whew!” whistled Polacek when the door had closed behind the purple shape. “You certainly have got a nerve, Harold. With your luck and my brains—we get a drink.”

  Shea rummaged a couple of pewter cups from a low cabinet in the corner, uncorked the bottle, sniffed, and poured some of its contents into each cup. The wine was sweet and dark, nearly black, with something the flavor of port, though he judged the proof would be lower.

  Shea sipped his, remarking with the air of an experienced conspirator: “You don’t want to ask questions among the hired help without getting a hold on them somehow first. They may lie to you, or they may be souped up to report anything you ask to the boss. I think we’ve got this bozo playing on our team for the time being—but I don’t like what he said about the deal Atlantès is cooking up.”

  “He means Belphebe, doesn’t he?” said Polacek, holding out his cup for another drink.

  “I’m afraid so. No, Votsy, we’ve got to hang onto some of this to keep Odoro in line. Besides, Atlantès would smell it on your breath a block away and know something wasn’t kosher. We have to watch our step.”

  Six

  It was plain that Roger was not enjoying the party, although the seven virgins of Sericane were giving him most of their attention. Harold Shea didn’t know that he altogether blamed the big bruiser. It was good second-rate cabaret stuff, which might have been fairly enjoyable had there been a comfortable place to sit, something to smoke, and something to drink. Reed Chalmers had excused himself early and gone off to enjoy the company of Florimel.

  The dance went on. In the middle of a figure Roger suddenly stood up. “In the name of Allah! Oh, Uncle, this is not less than the vilest of your entertainments. My liver is constricted, and I would broaden it by hunting bears among the mountains.”

  Atlantès broke off his conversation with one of the lords and began fluttering his hands, not aimlessly, but in the passes of a magical formula. However, it had no visible effect upon Roger, who trod firmly toward the door.

  From beside Shea, Polacek said: “Say, I got an idea!” and wriggled to his feet and followed. Nobody but the seven girls seemed to mind the departure very much, even Atlantès going on with his whispered conversation. But as the number grew to a close, Shea felt uneasy; Polacek had too great a capacity for trouble to be left wandering around the castle for very long with an idea in his head. He too got up and strolled out into the corridor.

  No sign of Roger or his friend. Shea ambled along the hall and around a bend without seeing anything significant. He was about to go back when his eye lighted on a side passage with a door at its end where a smoky light showed the interlocked pentacles that protect magicians who deal with devils. Atlantès’ own laboratory!

  In a moment the direction of his attention changed. The wizard was certainly well occupied, and if he did come looking for anybody it would be Roger. Shea stepped up to the marked door. No handle; and it did not move when he pushed it. Barred with a spell beyond doubt; but by this time he knew enough magic to deal with the situation. Reaching to his turban, he plucked from the brush that adorned its front a couple of stiff bristles, detached a thread from the hem of his aba, and tied the bristles together in the form of a cross. Holding this up to the door he whispered:

  “Pentacles far and pentacles near,

  I forthwith command you disappear!

  Shemhamphorash!”

  He paused, hoping there was no basilisk on guard.

  There was not. The room was long and lower than it seemed from the outside. A row of alembics and other magical apparatus lay ranged on a long table at one side, faintly reflecting the blue-white phosphorescent light thrown from the eyes of an owl and a crocodile, which stood on a pair of shelves. The animals were quite immobile; evid
ently Atlantès’ private system of lighting, though not one that would ever be popular with interior decorators. Along the shelf beneath them was a row of books, terminating in little compartments, each of which had a title on its attached tag.

  The books had characters on their backs which Shea tried in vain to puzzle out until he realized that in this space-time continuum he would be unable to read English or any other language in which books were printed without special instructions. With the tags on the scrolls he fared better:

  Ye Principalls of Magick with ye Conjuration of Daemons Superadded; Poisons Naturall; The Lawful Names of Allah; One Thousand Useful Curses; The Carpets of the Lesser Djann; Al Qa’sib’s Manner of Magickal Transformations . . .

  Ah! This one might have what he was looking for. Shea pulled out the scroll and glanced at it in the eyelight of the animals. It seemed to be almost as strong on general theory as Chalmers himself, but little or nothing as to practical details. A glance snowed him that, as might be expected, the scroll had neither table of contents nor index, and its style was so rambling that getting anything out of it would need a week’s work.

  Shea slipped the scroll back into its pigeonhole and turned to the rest of the room. If the enchanter were really trying to exchange Florimel’s body for that of the menacing “woman knight,” there ought to be traces of his labors about. However, the apparatus held no trace of filters, and the big scarred oak table beyond their bench lay bare. Atlantès was a neat sorcerer. Where would he keep his notebooks? Beyond the table was a stool and beyond that a low cabinet built into the wall. Like the outer door it had no handle, and as Shea bent closer he could see that its front was inscribed with pentacles. But at a touch it swung open, and Shea realized that his counterspell must have let down barriers all over the castle. The thought that if there were any ifrits or demons abroad tonight they could get in and have themselves a hell of a fine time made him giggle under his breath.