The Ambivalent Magician

by Simon Hawke

  "One step at a time, old boy," he told himself. "One step at a time."

  Meanwhile, in another space and time (which technically contradicts the "meanwhile," come to think of it, but you get the general idea), on a dirt road winding through the Redwood Forest in the land of Darn, Dr. Marvin Brewster was sitting in a horse-drawn cart with Mick O'Fallon, the brawny little leprechaun swordsmith, and Bloody Bob, the huge nearsighted brigand who had sworn eternal allegiance to Brewster for magically restoring his sight. Actually, Brewster had done nothing of the sort. When he had met Bob, the aging former mercenary's eyesight had grown so bad that he was incapable of seeing anything clearly unless it was about four inches in front of his face. Needless to say, Bob had been forced to retire from soldiering and had joined up with the Black Brigands, who were such a bunch of misfits that they would accept just about anybody. And they knew enough to stay well out of Bob's way when he started laying about him with his sword. Once, he had cleared half an acre of forest before he realized he was surrounded by trees and not human antagonists.

  After much trial and error, Brewster had made him a crude parr of prescription lenses, which he had mounted in a helmet visor. The "magic visor" had not quite corrected Bob's vision to 20/20, because Brewster was not a trained optometrist, but it was nevertheless a dramatic improvement and had further added to Brewster's growing reputation as a mighty sorcerer.

  At first, Brewster had felt very uneasy about being taken for a wizard, but no matter how much he tried to explain that what he did was science and not magic, nobody believed him. Even after he'd taught Robie McMurphy, a simple farmer, how to grind lenses for some of the other villagers who were having trouble with their eyes, they still thought it was magic, and that Brewster had to be a very gifted mage, indeed, to teach Robie how to work the enchantment so well. To these primitive people, "science" was merely some advanced form of necromancy and Brewster had given up trying to dissuade them from the notion. They called him "Brewster Doc," mistaking his last name for a title, as if he were an alchemist, and mistaking his title (he always liked his friends to call him Doc) for a name. He had grown to like the curious appellation. And if they wanted to believe that he knew magic, he'd finally decided, what was the harm? Besides, having a reputation as a sorcerer brought him a great deal of respect in this strange world and made things considerably easier than they might have been if they thought he was merely an ordinary man.

  Initially, Brewster had believed his time machine had taken him back into the past, to England in the ninth or tenth century, but it hadn't taken long for him to realize that he had traveled much farther than he'd thought. For one thing, there had been no dragons in medieval England, nor were there elves or unicorns or fairies. Brewster would never have believed such creatures could exist, yet now he numbered among his friends one gigantic, scaley, talking dragon named Rory, a coffee drinking beatnik vampire elf named Rachel Drum, and a leprechaun armorer and blacksmith named Mick O'Fallon. When he had first met Mick, Brewster had thought he was a dwarf. Now, he was about to meet some real dwarves, and he was looking forward to it with both eagerness and a little apprehension.

  Brewster tried, without a great deal of success, not to imagine dwarves the way they had appeared in the fairy tales he'd read as a child, because in this universe, the fairy tales were twisted. Here, elves drank human blood-except for Rachel, who was a vegetarian-unicorns smelled worse than skunks, bushes uprooted themselves and wandered about the countryside, and dragons dreamed events in Brewster's universe, somehow tapping into it psychically while they slept. Brewster had no idea what to expect of dwarves.

  It was almost dawn, and they had pulled up at a fork in the road leading to the Purple Mountains. As they waited, Brewster smoked his Dunhill pipe. He had long since run out of pipe tobacco, but Calamity Jane, the accident-prone wife of the brigand known as Pikestaff Pat, had concocted a special blend for him made from herbs and wildflowers and some other unspecified ingredients Brewster wasn't sure he really wanted to know about. It was a very pleasant smoke, but ever since he'd seen Jane grinding up some beetles for one of her hallucinatory tea blends, he had decided it was better not to question her too closely about such things. At least the "tobacco" Jane had blended for him didn't make him hallucinate, though it did impart a pleasant buzz.

  Sometimes, the life he'd left behind seemed almost like a dream. He had lost track of how long he'd been in this peculiar world. It had to be at least a year by now, perhaps longer. His clothes had all worn out, except for his durable Harris tweed sport jacket, and with his brown leather breeches, high lace-up boots with fringe tops, white cotton tunic and hounds-tooth sport coat, he now looked rather like a preppie peasant.

  He'd never been very good at keeping track of time, and for that matter, he had no idea where he really was in time-or space. Some sort of parallel universe, in another dimension. That was all he knew. He wouldn't have been surprised if Rod Serling suddenly stepped out from behind a rock and started speaking to an unseen television audience.

  Unwittingly, he had blundered into the greatest scientific discovery of all time, but unless he found a way to get back home, no one would ever know about it. And since he'd wrecked his time machine, the only way back now was to find the first machine he had constructed and programmed with these same coordinates. The good news was that he had finally learned where it was. The bad news was that it had fallen into the hands of a powerful wizard named Warrick Morgannan, better known as Warrick the White, the royal wizard to the King of Pitt. And from what Brewster had heard of Warrick, getting the time machine away from him would not be easy.

  The idea of going up against a real honest-to-God sorcerer was disconcerting enough all by itself, but Brewster had learned that Warrick was already trying to find him. This knowledge had come courtesy of a professional assassin by the name of Sean MacGregor. Mac had been sent out in search of Brewster, but he had met Black Shannon first, and the two bloodthirsty killers had fallen for each other like a ton of bricks. As a result, Mac had turned his back on Warrick, reneging on his contract, and had settled down in Brigand's Roost with Shannon, where he had opened a school for professional assassins. So far, he didn't have too many pupils-just his three hulking, birdbrained apprentices, Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh, and the Awful Urchin Gang, a filthy and unkempt agglomeration of stray children so obnoxious that no one would admit to being their parents.

  It had occurred to Brewster that perhaps training the Awful Urchins in the use of weapons was not the smartest idea in the world, but at least it kept them off the streets and out of people's hair, and teaching the only thing he knew gave Mac a feeling of accomplishment. And if Mac was happy, Shannon was happy, and if Shannon was happy, Brewster was relieved, because Shannon basically had three ways of dealing with men-bed them, kill them, or beat them into submission. She had done none of those with Brewster, though there had been several close calls, and Brewster had an uneasy feeling that she was still trying to decide which of the three courses she would take with him. So long as Mac kept her occupied, Brewster felt a whole lot safer. And he felt safer still once he started to bring some profit to the muddy little town of Brigand's Roost. It was to that end that he had come along with Mick on this trip to see the dwarves.

  " 'Tis very quiet you've been, Doc," said Mick. "Something on your mind?"

  "Oh ... just thinking, Mick, that's all," Brewster replied, abstractedly.

  "About home?" asked Mick.

  "How did you know?" said Brewster.

  " 'Tis a certain look you get when you start thinking about home," said Mick. "A distant, melancholy sort o' look."

  "Ah."

  "Are you not happy here, Doc?"

  "You know, Mick, the funny thing is, I am happy here. Happier than I can remember being in a long, long time. It's strange. Back home, I was a very wealthy man. I thought I had everything I ever wanted. I had a good home, the respect of my colleagues, and unlimited time to pursue my own research in a private laboratory, f
unded by a multinational corporation. I even had a charming, intelligent, beautiful young woman who was going to be my wife. I suppose I thought I was happy, but I realize now that there was something missing. I didn't really feel useful. Oh, I'd managed to come up with a few things that made enormous money for the corporation I was working for, and they had practical applications, to be sure, but I never really had the feeling that I was making a difference in people's lives-not the way I am here."

  "Aye, things have sure enough changed in Brigand's Roost since you arrived, Doc. And for the better, too. But tell me, what's a corporation?"

  Brewster smiled. "Well, you know all the plans you've been making with Robie and Pat and that peddler, Harlan? That's how a corporation starts. You begin with something that you want to market, like Jane's teas, for instance-"

  "Celestial Steepings teas," said Mick.

  "Celestial Steepings?" Brewster raised his eyebrows.

  " 'Tis what we're going to call the brews," said Mick. "Since Jane has about a dozen different blends by now, we thought each should have its own name, but they should all be known by a trade name, too."

  "A brand name," Brewster said, with a grin. "That's called marketing. Harlan's idea, right?"

  "Aye," said Mick. "He's got a lot o' fine ideas. We'll be marketing the Many-Bladed Knife, as well, and Doc's Magic Dirt Remover."

  "Doc's Magic Dirt Remover?" Brewster asked. "Oh, you mean the soap. You named it after me?"

  "We didn't think you'd mind."

  "No, I'm very flattered. But that's precisely what I mean. You begin with a plan for goods you want to market, and then you make arrangements for the production of those goods, and for their distribution, and for how you'll advertise them ... that's mainly what a corporation does. It starts small and as it prospers, it grows bigger and bigger, employing more and more people, accumulating more assets, adding more products, acquiring other companies, selling stock-"

  "Stock? What is that?"

  "What is stock? Well, basically, it's a way of raising capital. Money to finance your efforts. What you do is you sell small shares of your company to private investors. They give you money in return for those shares, which are pieces of paper that say they own an interest in a small part of your company. By purchasing these shares, they're gambling that your company is going to prosper and those shares are going to be worth more than what they paid for them. And as the company makes money, it pays dividends to shareholders-a small portion of the profits. And that's how corporations grow."

  "Interesting," said Mick. "I'll have to mention it to Harlan. But if you say you're happy here, then why do you miss your home so much?"

  "Because I don't really belong here, Mick. And because ... well, mainly because I miss Pamela."

  "Ah. Your intended. The beauteous sorceress."

  Brewster smiled. Mick and the others naturally thought Pamela was a sorceress, because he'd told them she was a scientist, as well. "I often wonder what she thinks happened to me. I wonder if she believes I ran off somewhere and left her. Or if she thinks I'm dead."

  "Perhaps her magic will enable her to follow you and find you here," said Mick.

  "Oh, I doubt that very much, Mick. We'd set the date for our marriage three separate times, and each time I failed to show up. It was all my fault, of course; I just became distracted. But who knows, maybe somewhere deep inside, I was afraid of getting married. No, I'm pretty sure Pamela's given up on me by now. It'll probably make her father very happy. He never did like me very much. He thought his daughter could do better."

  "Then he's a very foolish man," said Mick.

  "Why, thank you, Mick. That was a very kind thing to say."

  " 'Tis but the truth."

  "Well, I don't know about that. But it was nice of you to say so."

  " 'Tis almost sunrise," Mick said, looking up through the canopy of branches overhead. "The dwarves should be coming soon."

  "Why couldn't we just go meet them at their village?" Brewster asked.

  "I don't think you would enjoy that very much, Doc," Mick replied. "They live underground, you know, in warrens. I might be able to squeeze through their little tunnels, but you're much too big."

  "Oh."

  "But they come by this way each morning at this time, on their way to the mines up in the Purple Mountains. Whenever we have business to discuss, I always meet them here." Even as he spoke, Brewster could hear a curious chanting approaching from the distance, down the road. It was a chorus of deep male voices, accompanied by handclapping and foot stomping and percussive mouth noises. A moment later, he could see them coming around a bend in the road, marching in ranks with a curious, bobbing, dancing sort of cadence. As they drew closer, he could make out the. words of their rhythmic, sing-song chant.

  "Early in the morning, we rise and shine, And haul our asses to the mine, Hey, hey, my man! Hi, ho! It's off to work we go!

  "We tunnel down hard and we tunnel down deep, We keep diggin' that ore until it's time to sleep, Hey, hey, my man! Hi, ho! It's the only work we know!

  "Rappin' while we work, it's the way to go, It keeps the long day from goin' slow, Hey, hey, my man! Hi, ho!

  It's the way we run our show!

  "Dig it! Boom-shacka-lacka-lacka! Boom-shacka-lacka-lacka! Boom-shacka-lacka-lacka! Boom!"

  Brewster stared with astonishment at the tiny figures as they approached. They were even less than leprechaun-sized, the tallest of them shorter than Mick by at least a foot. Most of them were only about two feet tall, and Brewster was amazed that such deep, basso profundo voices could come from such tiny bodies. They were extremely muscular for their size, mostly blocky torso, with stubby, thick little legs and arms, and large heads crowned with masses of dark, Rastafarian-style dreadlocks. As they drew closer, he could see that their skin was an ash-gray color, and their facial features looked almost Asian. Their eyes were almond shaped and very wide apart, and they had graceful, turned-up noses and pointed chins. Some of them had their hair pulled back in pony-tails and Brewster saw that their ears were pointed as well, and they were even larger than elf ears. They all wore heavy leather boots with thick soles and heels, and baggy leather shorts that came down to just below their knees. But what most struck Brewster were the oversize shirts they wore, in a wide variety of colorful plaids.

  "Those shirts..." he said. "They look like-"

  "Dwarven flannel," Mick said. "Light, warm, and very comfortable. Only dwarven weavers know how to make it, and they will not share the secret with anyone."

  "Rapping, Rastafarian, grunge dwarves?" said Brewster.

  As the dwarves stopped in front of their wagon, a couple of them detached themselves from the formation and approached. "Hi, ho, Mick," one of them said.

  "Hi, ho, Dork," Mick replied.

  "Dork?" said Brewster, raising his eyebrows.

  The dwarf drew himself up to his full height, though at a full height of only two feet, something about the effect was lost. "I am Dork, headman of my tribe," he said in a surprisingly deep voice. He thumped himself on his chest for emphasis. "And this is Dweeb, my brother."

  "Ho," said Dweeb, with a curt nod at Brewster.

  "And this is the Brewster Doc, the mighty sorcerer I told you about," said Mick.

  The two dwarves looked properly impressed, but not as impressed as they looked when Mick showed them a couple of the Swiss Army knives from the recent production run back at the keep. They went back to the others and were all soon mumbling excitedly, as the knives were passed around.

  "Dwarves are extremely fond o' tools," said Mick, in an aside to Brewster. "They love nothing better. The knives will do most o' the work for us, but let me do the bargaining. You just sit there and look important."

  "Whatever you say, Mick," Brewster said, and he tried to look as important as he could when Dork and Dweeb came back up to the wagon.

  "We must have these marvelous knives," Dork said intensely. "Never have we seen such well-made, useful tools. How much will you
take for them?"

  "Nothing," Mick said.

  "But we must have them!"

  "You misunderstood," said Mick. " 'Tis a gift they are, from Doc to your brother and yourself."

  The two dwarves glanced at Brewster with astonishment and Brewster merely nodded, trying to look important.

  "Truly?" Dork said with amazement.

  "Truly," Mick replied. "Doc would like to make you presents o' them, as a gesture o' goodwill."

  The dwarves glanced at each other. "Do you have more knives such as these?" asked Dork.

  "They are very difficult to craft," said Mick. "And we require only the very finest materials, such as those you have provided me with in the past, in limited quantities, for certain o' my swords."

  The dwarves glanced at each other again. "And if we could provide more?"

  "You mean to say you might be interested in an alliance for our mutual benefit?"

  "If it is to our mutual advantage," Dork replied cautiously.

  "Well then, let's talk some business, lads," said Mick with a wink at Brewster as he got down out of the wagon.

  Three

  The muddy little town of Brigand's Roost was no longer a muddy little town, and some of the older residents weren't quite sure what to make of all the changes. Gentrification was a word that was unknown to One-Eyed Jack and Bloody Mary, but as they sat on the second-floor balcony of One-Eyed Jack's Tavern, watching all the new construction, they wondered about the effect all these changes were having on their lives.

  Every day, more and more people arrived in Brigand's Roost. Jack had built an addition to his tavern to house the overflow from the rooms he had to let upstairs, and no sooner had the construction been completed than he had to start building yet another addition to accommodate the constant influx of new arrivals. In this manner, the tavern had expanded over the last year until it had become surrounded by a commodious rooming house that had grown to take up an entire block, and was now known as The Brigand's Roost Hotel.