The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  There was the possibility that, as Oriabel claimed, important information of some sort awaited them in Auxerre. But he was willing to take the chance that whatever it was, he would be able to ferret it out on his own.

  At last, near dawn, he had ridden far enough through the forest to feel confident that Oriabel would not be able to track him. He made camp and gratefully wriggled down into the warmth of his bedding for a few hours’ sleep while the wind continued to moan and cry above his head, and the trees to groan and rustle.

  He was awakened by a brisk kick to his ribs. His eyes flew open, and his heart fell: Oriabel stood looking down on him. She drew back her booted foot for another blow. He scrambled back out of her range.

  “I see that I cannot trust you,” she said. “That was a low trick, sneaking away in the middle of the night.”

  “You augured my intent,” he said sullenly, rubbing his side. The time, he saw from a quick look at the sky, could not yet be past noonday.

  “Not so. Events must be situated further out in the time stream before they cause the ripples that make themselves discernable to my methods. It is not always a reliably precise discipline, augury.” She spat thoughtfully and colorfully to one side. “Though I have often wondered if there are other ways. One day I will research that. But for now! I know you resent me, though I thought by now you would have found cause to be thankful I have come.”

  “Do you mean your use of the sword?” He scoffed. “I could have handled those brigands myself.”

  “Perhaps.” She leaned forward, and Guilhem found himself backpedaling contrary to his will, unable to control his feet. He fetched up against a tree with an impact that made his teeth rattle.

  The witch approached him, digging in her rags. “Or perhaps not. In any event, I must satisfy myself that you won’t seek to elude me again,” she said.

  “You need not worry,” he said, not bothering to disguise his sullen tone. “You have my word that I will make no further attempt.”

  “So you say, and I feel I can believe you—for the moment. But who is to say what will happen farther along the trail?” She looked around. “Which we seem to have lost. Ah well, one thing at a time, eh?” She took something out of her tunic. It was about as big as the palm of his hand, and looked something like a transparent spider made of some sticky, sugary material. It quivered, and Guilhem realized with a shock of revulsion that the thing was alive. She said, “Do you expose your belly, duke.”

  “That I shall not.”

  She drew her dagger meaningfully. His own, he knew, rested beside his bedroll, out of reach. Growling, he slowly lifted his tunic. Oriabel stepped forward and pressed the spidery thing to his flesh. At once it stuck fast, then, to his horror, sank into his body. The process took but a moment and was entirely painless. The creature left no trace of itself on him, he realized, rubbing the area where it had clung. “What—what have you done to me?”

  “You are now host to a fylgja. It resides quite comfortably in your chest cavity, partaking of nourishment from your bloodstream. Should you stray too far from me it will sense the loss of proximity and constrict your lungs until you return to my sphere of psychic influence. After we conclude our business with the ifrit I will see to its removal. Until then, it will serve to ensure that you won’t endeavor to elude me.”

  As though to verify her words, Guilhem felt the weird creature housed within him twitch, providing an indescribable feeling against his lungs near his heart. He cringed with revulsion but the fylgja made no further movements.

  “I do this for your own good,” she said. “I don’t mean it to be a punitive measure. It will help to ensure your safety, if I know where you are.”

  “Are you my mother, that you need to watch over me?” he demanded, furious.

  “You do not understand.”

  “Pray explain, then!”

  She opened her mouth, but then appeared to reconsider. “When the time is right, I will,” was all she would say.

  Simmering with repressed rage, some of which was directed at himself for not being more careful about his escape, Guilhem broke camp under the witch’s watchful eye. Taking to their mounts, they set out in the direction Guilhem judged most likely to return them to the trail. Sure, enough, they came upon it before mid-morning, and resumed their journey to Auxerre. That day they traveled in silence, with a surly Guilhem refusing to speak as much as a single word to his companion. Some of this was due to his lack of sleep, but mostly he was pondering how he might yet win free of her influence. Sadly, with the fylgja now resident in his chest, there seemed little chance of doing so.

  He fell asleep that night in a dark mood. On the morrow, however, he rose feeling substantially more optimistic, and set about preparing breakfast for the two of them. A snatch of tune had wafted into his mind overnight, and after considering it he decided that it might well make an acceptable song. At one point, he began whistling it.

  Oriabel, who had not drunk anything on the previous night, sat with her back against a tree, scratching herself beneath her garments and regarding him from under lowered brows.

  “Why so cheerful?” she growled.

  “How does it serve me to retain a foul temper? I do not enjoy our forced association, Mistress Witch, but since I am obliged to accept it I believe that it makes no sense for both of us to be irritable and sullen. I will therefore leave that to you.” He sketched a quick bow toward her and resumed his preparations. “And besides, I have a new song to occupy my thoughts, and such things tend to evaporate if my mood is less than receptive and open.”

  He whistled his new tune once more, and her scowl deepened. Aware that he had by happenstance found a way to annoy her, he took heart and grew more upbeat as the morning wore on.

  The trail gradually grew wider and more traveled, with merchants and peasants and the occasional proud knight joining the traffic along the way. Guilhem stopped several of these people to inquire about conditions in and around the town. One young man sitting on a stone beside the road had taken off his boots, which lay on the ground beside him, and was rubbing his feet. From him Guilhem learned that Auxerre itself was not unwelcoming to strangers, but the region was rife with bandits.

  “It isn’t safe to travel this road at night,” the youth said. “A notorious highwayman named Vedastus lairs nearby, no man knows where... I don’t know why he hasn’t been brought to justice, but I have heard it said that he has ties to certain Bohemian nobles. More than this I do not know.”

  Thanking him, Guilhem and Oriabel went on their way. Oriabel said, “I told you that it was vital for us to visit Auxerre. Now we know why.”

  “Though it pains me to admit it, you were right. I venture to say that this Vedastus may have information of use. It’s a pity that we can’t find some way to talk to him.”

  Oriabel glanced at him with a strange look in her rheumy eye. She seemed to be about to say something but subsided, and spent the remaining miles to Auxerre in thoughtful silence.

  That night they put up in a small inn near the settlement’s center.

  The tavern in the inn was, as were most such establishments, a place where townsfolk and travelers mingled. Because Guilhem was obviously a knight of some substance, the fact that he had entered with a tatterdemalion like Oriabel raised a few eyebrows. Ignoring the puzzled looks directed at them, the witch produced a leather bag from within her garments. Out of the bag she took two or three dozen small pasteboard rectangles. One side of each was painted with a figure and a number, while the other showed merely a design and was identical from one card to another.

  Guilhem frowned. “What are these?”

  She shuffled them together several times without bothering to look at him. “A divinatory tool commonly used in Egypt,” she said. “You see there are four types, or suits: wands, pentacles, swords, and cups.”

  “A divinatory tool, you say,” Guilhem said, watching her hands move. She was deft with the cards. “Might they tell you where we may find this
Vedastus?”

  “Not as such, but they will lead us to him in time. I will use them here to tell the fortunes of the local citizenry.”

  Mindful of the ifrit trapped in its frozen tower back in his homeland, Guilhem said, “In time, eh? I pray, then, that the time will be short.” And then you can also explain why you are watching over me like a mother dog over her puppies.

  “Do you seat yourself at another table,” the witch replied testily. “While you are here, others will not approach for a reading. Oh, and order me a bottle of wine.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Guilhem, tamping down on his annoyance. The woman didn’t even bother to say ‘please.’ But he understood her aim: Oriabel was presenting herself as a soothsayer. “You seek further information concerning the brigand.”

  “Of course.”

  Knowing from experience that she indeed had qualifications as an augur, Guilhem took himself to a seat near the door where he might inspect those entering and leaving, hoping thereby to detect anyone of a larcenous aspect who might have connections to the mysterious Vedastus.

  After a couple of hours, however, he hadn’t noticed any suitable suspects. The patrons seemed lamentably open of aspect and mien. In the meantime, he watched as Oriabel gave half a dozen readings for people. At last Guilhem grew impatient and went to her table as soon as she picked up the cards following her final customer.

  “I have learned nothing concerning Vedastus,” he said, taking the seat across from her. Her bottle, he noted without surprise, was already half empty.

  “Nor have I, but I have made some money.” She displayed a handful of coins. “So the night has not been a complete loss.” She yawned. “I am weary... I will sleep now.”

  “Very well. I will stay here. I may yet learn a few things.”

  She sniffed. “As you will.”

  The hour grew late, meandering toward midnight. Guilhem, seeing that the patrons were becoming increasingly inebriated, took a calculated risk and grew a bit less discreet in enquiring about the bandit Vedastus, but no one could—or would—say more than that the man was said to have headquarters somewhere in the region. Certainly, Vedastus was known to prey on those travelers appearing prosperous or otherwise well-to-do.

  At last Guilhem had a bit of luck. One man, deep in his cups, swore that Vedastus was in the employ of a Bohemian nobleman who had gotten himself into financial difficulties and had somehow cajoled the highwayman into helping him replenish his coffers.

  “From what I hear,” said the man, a pig farmer from an outlying district in town to sell some animals, “the noble is married to his cousin—hence his involvement.” He leaned confidentially across the table. “More than that,” he whispered, “I have heard that he is in league with dark powers.”

  Guilhem’s ears immediately pricked up. “How now?” he asked. “This is interesting.”

  The pig farmer glanced around the public room, as though fearful of being overheard. “These are but rumors,” he said in a lower tone, leaning confidently toward Guilhem across the table. The shocking odor of his breath nearly made Guilhem recoil. “It would be folly for me to say more. His men are everywhere, you know.”

  Guilhem produced a silver coin from the pouch at his belt and placed it on the table, keeping his finger on it. “So one or more of his confederates may be here? Does Vedastus himself ever patronize this establishment? Alternately, do you know of one that he does patronize?”

  The farmer stared at the coin, licking his lips. “I have unfortunately drunk much of the profit I realized from selling my pigs,” he said, half to himself.

  “I daresay this silver would go far to offsetting your, uh, loss,” Guilhem said, holding back a smile.

  The farmer, still staring at the coin, whispered, “I have heard it said that his gang may be found at a tavern two streets over from here, the Black Ox. It’s a lowly place, frequented by those of dubious character. More than this I do not know.”

  Guilhem nodded and flicked the coin across the table. The farmer grabbed it and stood, bowing unsteadily. “Your good health, sir,” he said, and turned to go.

  Feeling that the night had been reasonably successful Guilhem went up to his room. As he prepared to enter it, a door to one side was thrown open. Guilhem drew his sword in alarm, but it was merely Oriabel, standing swaying in the doorway, wearing only an undergarment that was considerably less than clean.

  “What luck?” she demanded.

  Averting his eyes less from modesty than from an unwillingness to view her thin arms and legs, Guilhem said, “I have learned that he occasions a nearby tavern named the Black Ox.”

  She grunted in satisfaction. “Good. Very good.” And with that she withdrew into her room and slammed the door.

  Guilhem went to bed, pleased with his work but even more disgusted with the witch’s maddening personality and inappropriate behavior.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IN WHICH GUILHEM EXPERIENCES SOME UNPLEASANT CHANGES

  The next morning Guilhem woke feeling that something was wrong. He lay without moving or opening his eyes, certain that all was not well—but he couldn’t come to any definite conclusion about why he felt that way. Had someone entered his room with the intent to rob him? Guilhem almost smiled. A would-be thief would find himself faced with a seasoned fighting man.

  He opened one eye. At first, he saw nothing wrong. Then something like a whip flicked across his field of vision, and he automatically reached out to seize it.

  A weird, segmented member, tipped with a claw, came into view before his eyes. It grasped the whip-like thing and tugged. Pain shot through Guilhem’s head, pain that only ceased when he—with the segmented leg (could it possibly be a leg?)—let go of the whip, which seemed to be attached to his head.

  And now he saw an enormous face looming over him, and recognized Oriabel, as though the witch was expanded to the size of a mountain. Guilhem tried to scream but no sound came from his mouth. He worked his jaws—from side to side.

  The witch lay on her side with her head propped on one elbow, watching him with unconcealed amusement. Guilhem tried to run, but he had six legs now, and couldn’t manage the extra four for some while. At last he found the trick of it: the front and middle legs on opposite sides moved first, together; then one back leg supplied some push while the opposing front ones stepped forward; and the other back leg pushed. Within a short time, he was scuttling about the bedclothes in a very cockroach-like manner.

  For that was what he had become. He saw, when Oriabel put a small mirror down before him, a cockroach. He gazed up at her grinning countenance in impotent fury. What have you done to me, you cursed cow? From what he saw in the mirror, his horrid new face betrayed no sign whatsoever of emotion, but his antennae quivered with the force of his rage.

  The witch’s grin broadened. “Now, my lord duke, pray don’t take on so. I have not transformed you out of spite or simply to toy with you.” She picked him up and carried him to a small table against the wall, under the room’s grimy window. The trip through the air took his breath away—or would have, had he any lungs. As it was, he was so terrified at finding himself carried over the floor, which seemed to be a vast distance below, that he could not move for several moments after she put him down.

  She lowered her head close to the tabletop. “Here is the plan,” she said. “You will accustom yourself to your new body today until you have it fully under your control. Then, this evening, we will pay a visit to the Black Ox Inn, in the hopes of finding Vedastus the brigand.” Seeing him wave his antennae in agitation, she said, “Yes, he may well not be there. If he is not, we will go again tomorrow night, and the night after that; until we find him. I will lay out card readings for the patrons; and you, meantime, will confer with your fellow vermin for any tidbits of information you may be able to glean from them concerning Vedastus and his cronies.

  “I will return you to your customary form once we have successfully completed our reconnaissance.”

  Gui
lhem ran around in circles, unable to do more to express his humiliation and wrath.

  Oriabel said, “I am going for breakfast now, and to run a few errands. I will bring you some bread before I leave. Now, don’t venture out of this room. Most people pay insects no mind, but you stand a good chance of being stepped on or crushed if you aren’t careful. I will also settle your bill so that no one will come looking for you. I’ll pack up your gear and bring it here later.”

  The day passed quickly enough for him despite his foul mood. From time to time he took a mouthful of the hunk of bread she had, true to her word, brought up for him. As he grew more used to his new form he found that he rather enjoyed the novelty of his insect capabilities. He could move at a truly amazing rate of speed, now that he had got the order of his legs sorted out. In addition, he could climb surfaces that, as a human, he would have supposed were quite smooth. But at his current size he saw that a wall, for example, was as rough and pitted as the face of an old stone cliff, its surface giving easy purchase to a being with multiple claw-tipped legs.

  Then, too, he could fly! But this was not an ability that he had much control over: the best he could manage with his wings was a sort of rooster-like fluttering through the air, and not in a very specific direction. After two or three painful collisions, he decided to leave flight to more capable practitioners, like flies or birds.

  By the time the witch returned, in the middle of the afternoon, Guilhem felt quite confident in his body. She watched in grim approval as he displayed his abilities, running back and forth, climbing chair and table legs, and so on.

  “Very good,” she said. “Very good indeed. Now, take a nap; the night promises to be busy and we will be many hours at our separate tasks.”