The Exotic Enchanter

by L. Sprague Camp

  “To judge by the heat, I would say it must be somewhere In the tropics.” Chalmers swayed.

  Shea caught his arm to steady him. “Only a minute, Doc — Then you’ll stabilize.”

  “I shall recover,” Chalmers muttered. “Am I growing weaker, Harold? Syllogismobile travel has never struck me so hard before!”

  But Chalmers lurched bumping against Shea, who might have toppled himself, if it had not been just at that moment that someone bumped into him from the other side. “Oh, excuse me!” he said. Just to be on the safe side, he stepped quickly away, right hand dropping to his sword hilt — but with his left still holding to Chalmers just in case he was still woozy. He could have sworn the other party muttered something about a stupid beggar, but he must have been wrong, because the man said, softly but exuberantly. “Brother! Comrade in thievery! How are your pickings tonight?”

  Shea stared, taken aback — and looked the man over in one quick glance. He wore a dark-colored cloth wrapped about his hips, sandals, a sword, and a forked beard with moustaches that curved up to the corners of his eyes. Besides that, he had a very flat nose — but the real distinguishing characteristic was the turban. They were in India!

  No wait a minute — there were other countries where people wore turbans, from Arabia through Persia. . . .

  But they didn’t eat curry.

  Not exactly conclusive evidence, but the aroma, the heat, and the turban all added up, so Shea decided to operate as though this were India until proven otherwise. The syllogismobile had made him a natural speaker of the local language, so she he said, “Sorry, friend — the darkness must be deceiving you. We’re not thieves, we’re foreigners. We, uh, were traveling late — decided we were so close to the town that we might as well keep pushing until we arrived.”

  “Foreigners? Well, that does explain your outlandish clothing.” Flat-nose eyed them suspiciously, “But how did you come into the city after the gates closed?”

  A straight-line gleam caught Shea’s eye and, looking more closely he saw that the man had a thread tied over his nose and around his head. No wonder his nose was flat! For a wild second, he thought it was a fly-fishing leader, then realized that, in a pre-industrial town it must be something less exotic — horsehair, say, or catgut. But why the disguise? “After the gates closed? We didn’t.”

  Chalmers nodded, muttering, “Quite true, quite true,” Shea hoped he was only indulging in irony, not shock.

  “We’ve, ah, just been wandering around, trying to find a good hotel.”

  “Wandering? Yes,” Chalmers agreed.

  Shea noticed he didn’t commit himself to the questionable part of the statement. “Would you know of a good inn, kind sir?”

  “An inn? Not if you have no money! And you do not, from the look of you.”

  Obviously, the man still thought they were thieves — or at the best, beggars. Unfortunately, his comment hit home — they didn’t have any money, at least not in local currency. “What can you recommend, then?”

  “To get out of sight! As quickly as possible! There is a gang of thieves plaguing this city, and if you run afoul of them, they may kill you rather than risk your bringing witness against them!” Flat-nose shouldered past them with a hasty, “May you have good fortune!” and disappeared into the night.

  Shea’s blood chilled; he had heard of such things, but had not thought they happened until the 1920s. “You don’t think there really is a gang working the town, do you, Doc?”

  “More to the point,” said Chalmers, “is the possibility that we have just encountered a member of the band.” He shuddered. “Who would know better of their existence — or have a better reason for wishing us to go indoors, where we cannot see what he does?”

  He obviously didn’t doubt the man for a second. “I guess you’re right, Doc, After all, why else would he make such a clumsy attempt at disguise?”

  “You mean the thread around his nose? Yes, quite so. Presumably, that tells us two things: that the thieves are ruthless, and that they are flat-nosed.”

  Shea stared in surprise “You mean we just talked to a local cop?”

  “It is a possibility,” Chalmers said, “but more pertinent is his advice. Let us find a hole to hide in, Harold.”

  It was good advice indeed. Shea looked around, able to make out a bit more of their surroundings now that his eyes had adjusted to the moonlight. The larger buildings in the distance were elaborate and intricate — and he was sure he recognized the silhouette of a slim tower, “I think we’re in India, Doc. More to the point, we’re in a genuine city not just a big town.”

  “I quite agree.” Chalmers looked around, frowning. “Now, where do you hide in a city if you can’t find a hotel?”

  “A back alley is a good place,” Shea drew his sword. “Of course, the local muggers might not have gone to bed yet, and they like alleys, too. Want to take a chance on it, Doc?”

  “Let me consider the proposition,” Chalmers steepled his fingers, resting his lips against them for a minute. Then he drew a circle in the dust with his toe, reciting,

  “ . . For knowledge if anyone burns.

  We’re keeping a very small prophet,

  A prophet who brings us unbounded returns!”

  Them was a burst of light like a photographer’s flash, and a two-foot-high man with a long beard and a longer gray robe stood before them, bald bead gleaming in the moonlight. “Good evening, sir! May I help you?”

  “Victorian,” Chalmers muttered to Shea, and to the prophet, “You may indeed, O Wise One! Can you tell me where we are?”

  “Where? Why summon me for such trivialities sir? Well, it is your money. You are in India — the city of Chandradoya, to be precise.”

  “You guessed well, Harold,” Chalmers observed. Then, to the diminiutive prophet, “Thank you, O Fount of Wisdom. Can you also tell me the identity of that man whom we addressed but now?”

  “He with the horsehair round his nose? To be sure, sir! That was Randhir, the rajah of this fair city! will there be anything else?”

  “The rajah himself, eh?” Chalmers mused. “Running about at night without a bodyguard, dressed as a peasant Well, well! Quite eccentric . . . No, thank you. Esteemed One. I need no further information at this time.”

  “A pleasure to serve you, sir. That will be six shillings, please.”

  “Pay the man, Harold,” Chalmers said.

  Shea favored Chalmers with a quick glare, then fished in his purse. “I’m a little short on shillings at the moment. How about a Russian grivna?”

  “I am sure that will be equal or better in value,” the prophet said quickly. He took the coin and bowed. “Call upon us whenever you have need, sir!” With another flash, he disappeared.

  As Shea blinked away afterimages, Chalmers told him, “So magic works in this universe — but not very well.”

  “Not well? Why?”

  “Come now, Harold! Do you honestly believe the King himself would be going about at night dressed as a commoner, with a horsehair round his nose? This isn’t the Arabian Nights, you know.”

  “Oh, isn’t it? Any particular myth you recognize, Doc?”

  Another flash, and there stood the miniature prophet again. “You are in the midst of a tale from the collection Vikram and the Vampire, compiled by the sage Bhavabhuti, and translated by Sir Richard Francis Burton — yes, the explorer who helped search for the headwaters of the Nile.”

  Shea goggled, but Chalmers said, completely unruffled, “Which tale exactly?”

  “The fifth,” the prophet said, and held out a cupped palm. “Two shillings, please.”

  Feeling numb Shea handed over another Russian coin. The prophet took it and bowed. “Thank you, gentlemen! Call again, whenever you please!”

  Shea found his voice. “But we didn’t. Call again, I mean.”

  “True, but we make unbounded returns. Good evening.” The prophet disappeared brilliantly.

  “Don’t ask any more questions,” Chal
mers advised, “or he’ll be back in a flash.”

  “I won’t,” Shea promised. “I’m having trouble enough adjusting to the idea of a plainclothes rajah.”

  “Surely you do not believe the little man!”

  “You mean the Prophet of Profit? Why not? We’ve run into stranger things,” Shea sighed. “Besides, his being king would explain the attempt at disguise.”

  Chalmers frowned. “How so?”

  “Because if his royal nose is of a size with his rank, of course he’d want to make it look shorter. Hadn’t we better go looking for that alley now?”

  “Yes, by all means,” Chalmers followed Shea along the dusty street. “We must see to obtaining local clothing as soon as possible.”

  “I think we’ll have to wait for daybreak, when the shops open. What caste do you think I should opt for?”

  “Persian robes — a traveler from the West will be your best role here. That avoids the whole issue of caste as well as it can be avoided.”

  “But not too far to the west, hm?”

  “Indeed. Our Medieval Russian garb must be quite incomprehensible to most of the local residents. We want to be believable as foreigners, not maniacs. For myself, a simple saffron robe will do nicely — I shall be a sunnyasi, a wandering holy man.”

  “With your Northern European complexion? Whom do you think you’re fooling?”

  “Philosophers can be of any breed, and still be credible,” Chamers replied, with a loftiness that made Shea wonder about suppressed impulses toward asceticism, He decided a quick change of subject was in order. “I thought our little philosopher was Victorian English.”

  “He was — he came from John Wellington Wells’ shop at Number Seventy, Simmery Axe.”

  “But we’re speaking a Hindu dialect right now. How come we understood him?”

  “He is magical, you know,” Chalmers sighed, “unlimited knowledge, and all that sort of thing.”

  “Oh.” Shea let that one sink in. Then he asked, “You mean he’s apt to show up any time I ask a question now?” He danced at the darkness about him with apprehension, realizing too late that he might have triggered another visit.

  So did Chalmers; he let out a sigh of relief when nothing flashed. “Only if it’s a matter of knowledge we do not have, or cannot gain locally, I would presume. Still, I would be careful what you asked for.”

  “I know — I might get it.” Shea pointed. “There’s a likely looking alley.”

  “What its looking like, I will not say.” Chalmers eyed the black space between buildings with misgiving. “Still, if it is our only hope of avoiding the gang of thieves, let us hie ourselves thither.”

  “Thither?” Shea echoed, but he headed for the mouth of the alley anyway.

  Stepping in, they passed from bright moonlight into sudden shadow. “Where are you, Harold?” Chalmers whispered.

  “Right beside you — or your voice, anyway. This place is as dark as the Black Hole of Calcutta.” Then Shea remembered that they might not be all that far from Calcutta, and swallowed. Sweat would have sprung out all over his body, if it hadn’t already. “Why are we whispering?”

  “Because it’s da-ah-uh-HO!” Chalmers stumbled, lurched, and reached out to catch hold of Shea, who braced himself just in time to keep both of them on their feet.

  “Stupid fool!” hissed a voice that started below them, then rose quickly in both pitch and elevation. “Can you not see where you step?”

  “N-no, actually, we can’t.” Shea huddled hack against Chalmers then remembered himself and stepped in front, hand going to his sword. He could only just make out the gleam of reflected light from eyes and an earring. “Can’t see a thing.” But his eyes were adjusting to the deeper darkness, and he could detect a vague, irregular circle low down in the wall opposite him, with another man coming out of it on hands and knees. Chalmers had tripped over their current conversationalist as he made his exit — but who came out of a building through a hole in the wall? Especially with a bagful of hard-looking lumpy objects over his shoulder?

  Thieves — and ones who didn’t pussyfoot around with such niceties as lockpicks or glass-cutters. But how did they knock a hole in a wall without making a racket that would bring down every policeman in the neighborhood?

  Easy — no police. And the neighbors didn’t bother the men because they were scared stiff, “Doc,” Shea hissed, “I think we’ve found our gang of thieves.”

  “Not mine,” Chalmers assured him, then forced a smile and stepped forward. “Greetings, O Man of skill! We are strangers in your fair city, and . . .”

  “Strangers indeed, not to know enough to keep within doors at night!” A knife suddenly appeared at Chalmers’ throat — rough and homemade, by Shea’s twentieth-century standards, but with a gleam of sharpness to its edge that showed it was quite functional. “What shall we do with these two, Chankoor?”

  “Hold them a moment, Din,” the other man said as he stood up. “When we are all out, we shall take him to the captain.”

  “Even as he says,” Din told Chalmers and Shea. “Hold yourselves quite still now, or my hand might waver.”

  Chalmers swallowed convulsively, almost nicking his Adam’s apple in the process, and stared at the man with bulging eyes. Behind his back, Shea stiffened a finger and let it relax, very slowly, as he began to mutter something about melting, but Chalmers clamped a hand onto his arm, and Shea decided that Doc hadn’t quite given up hope of talking his way out of this.

  “Take your hand from your sword-hilt, cow-eater,” Din sneered, and twisted the knife for emphasis. Below him, a third man, then a fourth, crawled out of the hole, the last reaching back to drag out two more bags of plunder.

  “Tell us who you are, completely and truthfully,” Chankoor demanded.

  “Tell him, Harold,” Chalmers said out of the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving Din’s face.

  “Harr-ld?” Chankooor scowled at Shea. “What manner of name is that?”

  Shea tried to remember what the Hindus might have called Europeans, before the Portuguese opened up trade with their ports. “We are, uh, Frankish, uh . . . thieves! Yes, Frankish thieves, come to study the techniques of your so-excellent band, whose fame has reached even to . . .”

  “The truth!” The knife twisted again, and Chalmers gasped.

  Shea wondered on which part of his concoction the man had caught him out. “Oh, all right! We heard there were rich pickings here, and that no one could stop robbers in this city, so we came to . . . well . . .”

  “Cut a slice of the haunch for yourself?” Chankoor grunted. “Foolish barbarian! Know that our captain will tolerate no band but his own in this city! However, if your gods bless you, perhaps he will allow you to join us. Come, then, and we will take you to him. Turn and go!”

  The knife withdrew, and a hard hand turned Chalmers toward the mouth of the alley. His shoulders slumped with relief even as he stepped away, then stepped faster as the knife-point pricked the back of his neck and the hard hand tugged him along.

  Another hand caught Shea’s arm in a grip like a blood-pressure cuff and hauled him after Chalmers. He went, wondering why the thieves hadn’t taken his sword. Could it be the design was so alien to them that they didn’t recognize it for what it was? No, surely not! They must have been confident of being able to kill him before he could stab any of them. Talk about arrogance!

  He fell in beside Chalmers, reflecting that, although the local dialect of Hindustani might be his native language now, and that he probably wouldn’t even be able to remember a word of English, he should still be able to speak a language that had always been foreign to him.

  “Qu’est-que nous faisons maintenant, Monsieur le Docteur?” What do we do now, Doc?

  “Nous irons encontre ce capitaine de voleurs,” Chalmers replied. “J’ai devient curieux.” We go meet this captain of thieves; I have become curious.

  There were times when Shea could cheerfully have done without the inborn curiosity o
f the inquiring mind.

  “Speak not in your bleating tongue!” Chankoor snarled right behind Shea, and a knife pricked the back of his neck. “Oh, all right,” he grumbled, and followed the other two thieves out of the alley and into the night — where he virtually froze, staring about him in shock. The street swarmed with thieves, who didn’t seem to be at all concerned about somebody’s seeing them. A buzz of conversation filled his ears, and the moonlit gyrations of the thieves confused and dazzled him. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes. Had all this been going on before, and he just hadn’t noticed it? Some of them must have just been starling the evening’s work — apparently, he had fallen into the hands of the early birds that were out to get the golden worm — because they were still rubbing oil on their bodies between swigs from bottles that Shea was sure contained something more potent than fruit juice. Some had progressed beyond that point, rubbing lamp-black around their eyes and eyesockets, no doubt to make them less visible — between more swigs from bottles, of course.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Shea saw a robed man hurrying along the street, apparently oblivious to the thieves, but apprehensive about them. A couple of footpads fell upon him and bore him down; a knife flashed, and the victim cried out, a cry that ended in a horrid gurgle. The footpads stood up holding a fat purse.

  “Why didn’t we see them before?” Shea asked Chalmers — and the knife was suddenly at his throat again. “You are not the thieves you claim to be,” their captor growled, “or you would know the answer to that!”

  “We do not practice the same skills as you do in our benighted lands,” Chalmers said quickly. “Indeed, we have come here to learn them! Pray tell us how we did not . . .”

  He broke off, staring. So did Shea, for their captors had let go of their arms, and the street was suddenly empty again, except for the dead body — three dead bodies, now that he saw the view without the swarm of thieves. He could still hear them, but their voices seemed muted, distant.

  Then, suddenly, a thief was there, crouching as he rubbed oil over his shoulders. He recited an incantation, and Shea and Chalmers stared, fascinated, recognizing only a few words here and there; obviously, the man was speaking in an old language, probably Sanskrit; Shea was mildly surprised that he didn’t hear it as Latin.