The Monsters of Stephen Enchanter

by Natelson, D. J.

  “You’ll agree or you’re going right back to Crying.”

  “You’d go that far out of your way for me? That’s kind, if not practical. But listen—listen, please! I’m not refusing, just clarifying. Do you really want an open-ended agreement—one that an unknown enchanter might interpret however he liked? Think!”

  “Am I supposed to think this hesitation is for my sake?”

  “Think it’s for mine, if you like—but it benefits both of us. I’m not refusing your offer; I’m asking what it is. What, exactly, do you want? What are your terms?”

  The Jolly Executioner sat back down. “I will overlook your ability to miss the obvious,” he said, “and explain.”

  “How kind,” Stephen said, and winced—but the Jolly Executioner either did not recognize the rudeness, or did not care.

  “These are my terms: you will join this company and assist it in any way you can—making monsters and performing any other enchantments I ask of you. This company travels with a specific purpose and will dissolve when that purpose is completed, at which point your contract will end except for this clause: you will speak to no one of the company’s purpose for as long as you live, or even after.”

  “I can’t promise for after I’m dead,” said Stephen, “only before. What is the purpose?”

  “That, you’ll learn when it becomes necessary.”

  “It’s necessary now! At least give me a general idea.”

  “Monster killing.”

  “You’re bounty hunters?”

  “Of a sort. Do you agree?”

  “I’ve spent my life avoiding monsters.”

  “Or making them.”

  “Certainly not killing them. All right, here’s the deal: I will serve this company to the best of my abilities, including enchanting, until your Purpose is completed, you die, you release me, one full year has passed, my death, or such dire injury occurs to one of us that I can be no further help to you—whichever occurs first. At the end of this period, I will be permitted to leave in the manner of my choosing, safely, without hindrance. In return, my manacles will be immediately removed and never replaced and I will no longer be in debt to you. Agreed?”

  “Are all enchanters so legalistic?”

  “The intelligent ones. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” The Jolly Executioner stood, nodded to Tinkerfingers, and walked away.

  A sigh hung in the air as the company relaxed. Stephen found his hands were shaking slightly, and he stilled them.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  “Don’t mind his abruptness,” Tinkerfingers said. “He thinks it makes him look powerful and mysterious.”

  “You mean the Jolly Executioner always wears that hood?”

  “Always.”

  “Not just when rescuing or interacting with enchanters?”

  “Always. Wrists?”

  Stephen shook his sleeves away and held out both arms. Tinkerfingers’s hands darted forward and—click, click—the manacles fell to the ground. Stephen shuddered. The trembling in his hands worsened, and passed into his chest. He hadn’t realized how severely the iron and silver had been suppressing his magic, or how closely magic and emotions were tied. He had never been bound that long, never bound at all under stressful circumstances. He released a long, shaky breath. “Can you teach me to do that?” he asked Tinkerfingers.

  “Pick locks? Sure can. Do you want these?” Tinkerfingers was holding the manacles. “I can throw them away or melt them down—”

  “I’ll keep them.” He found his one remaining clean handkerchief, wrapped the manacles carefully inside, and stuffed them into one of his robes’ numerous hidden pockets. There were enough enchantments between the manacles and his skin to keep the iron from bothering him, but he’d have to add more for secrecy and security.

  He didn’t want to be bound ever again.

  “Does he know you call him that?” Youngster—the young man who had ridden near Stephen—had sidled up to them. His green scarves were pulled away from his face, and Stephen saw he was younger than he had supposed—seventeen or eighteen.

  “Mmm?” Stephen was staring down at his hands again. The tremor continued, more violently than before, and he had the intense desire to enchant something—anything—to get the stale magic out. “Call who what?”

  “The—the leader. You called him the Jolly Executioner!”

  “You did call him that,” Tinkerfingers realized. “It fit him, so I didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, yes, I did.” Stephen sneezed. “I think my cold’s going away. It must have been the iron keeping it in.”

  “Do you always give people names like that?” Youngster pressed. “What does he think about it?”

  “I have no idea,” Stephen said, “but if he doesn’t like it, he can tell me his real name.” He touched the inner pocket of his robes, the one that shielded the manacles, and added on secrecy and security. The magic flowed easily out of his fingertips—but not enough. He needed to enchant more, to purge every fragment of compressed magic.

  The serpent.

  “What’s my name, then?” Youngster asked. “And what do you call—”

  “Stop!” Tinkerfingers snapped.

  “What? I wasn’t going to say your name. You’re as bad as—as—now I can’t say hers, either!”

  “Miss Ironfist,” Stephen suggested.

  “Exactly!”

  “Even Miss Ironfist can be right,” Tinkerfingers said dryly, his ever-moving fingers brushing invisible cobwebs from the air.

  “So what’s my name?” Youngster asked. “And what’s his? Enchanter!”

  “Hmm?” Stephen had faded off again, obsessing over the unpleasant fullness of his magic. Youngster repeated the question. “Oh.” He pointed. “Tinkerfingers—Youngster.”

  Tinkerfingers burst out laughing.

  “Youngster!” Youngster cried, appalled.

  “It fits—it fits you!” Tinkerfingers gasped.

  “I’m not that young!”

  “Yes—you—are!”

  “Shut up, Tink.”

  “It’s Tinkerfingers. Which is, I might add, an excellent name. Much better than my real name. I’ll keep it.”

  “Well, ‘Youngster’ is rotten. Can’t you give me a different name, Enchanter?”

  “You could tell me your real name.”

  “I would if I could. Oh, please. Something a tiny bit more flattering.”

  “It isn’t meant to be flattering,” said Stephen, “it’s meant to be accurate—and to serve you right for not telling me your real name.”

  The serpent would be where he left it. He should enchant it soon, siphon off his magic, before the sculpture froze into the ground. He stood and brushed crumbs from his robes. From this angle, Youngster and Tinkerfingers had the same profile, the same hair color, almost like—

  Brothers.

  That could be useful to know. He had thought the company was made up of people thrown together by circumstance alone, people who—to judge from the relationship between Miss Ironfist, Granite, and Youngster—had no personal ties. In one case, anyway, that seemed not to be true.

  Little firelight flowed over the hump of snow that distinguished the campsite, but the moon was fat, and gleamed dully off the snow—enough to see by, in a pinch. Stephen found the head of his serpent and knelt by it. He stripped off his mittens and inner gloves, and stroked the serpent’s head with bare hands. Magic flew from his fingertips, investing virtue in fangs, eyes, nose, spine. Not life magic, not yet: enchantments to strengthen the snow, to harden it into ice, to facilitate movement. Stephen ran his hands down the serpent’s spine and back again, until every inch of it was coated with magic: a base of flexibility, coated with strength, density, speed, resistance, flow, and sense.

  Last of all, Stephen returned to the head. The snow serpent was not yet alive; for that he needed one last enchantment, one to accompany and encompass the others. He leaned close to the serpent’s ear and whispered to it.
r />   The snow serpent’s eyes focused and brightened. It raised its head, ponderously large and stately, and gazed down upon Stephen. “I need you to protect me,” Stephen told it, pouring out his excess magic, “against anything and everything that means me harm. Follow me, but keep yourself secret until I summon you.”

  The serpent had no tongue—an oversight—but it touched its nose to Stephen’s chest before it withdrew.

  Stephen watched it go. Now that he came down to it, he wasn’t sure how he felt about sharing his monsters with an entire company of people—or with showing the Jolly Executioner the extent of his abilities. He wasn’t in the habit of telling people he made monsters because, frankly, the only reason it wasn’t illegal is that the government didn’t know it could be done. He didn’t know of anyone else who could do it—not that he had known many enchanters.

  Bringing a monster to life had been the first magic he had ever done. He had been six, and deeply envious of his best friend’s dog. He hadn’t seen any reason why he couldn’t make his own dog, out of a stuffed toy.

  His mother had been appalled. Apparently, Stephen had learned, not everyone could do magic—and those who could, oughtn’t. It wasn’t respectable.

  On the other hand, it was what the Jolly Executioner was keeping him alive for. He steadied himself, nodded at the serpent, and returned to camp.

  Miss Ironfist was waiting for him. “Where,” she demanded, “have you been?”

  Stephen shrugged at her and turned away. She gripped his arm.

  “No one gave you permission to leave camp.”

  “That’s because I didn’t ask.” Stephen nodded coolly to her. She didn’t remove her hand.

  “You will not leave this camp without permission.”

  “That’s not up to you, is it? I’m as much a member of this company as you are.” Stephen shook off her hand, spun on his heel, and went to rejoin Youngster and Tinkerfingers near the fire.

  Miss Ironfist followed. “I know enchanters have no honor,” she said, “and it’s no good getting you to promise not to wander off—”

  “Because I won’t.”

  “You need to understand the implications. It’s not only yourself you’re endangering when you—”

  “Enchanter! We wondered where you’d gone.” Tinkerfingers’s lips quirked into a half-smile, and he held up a number of thin metal objects that Stephen recognized as lock picks.

  “And Miss Ironfist,” Youngster added mischievously. “What a treat. Come to join us?”

  “Do not pick up that ridiculous name; you know very well it’s not mine.”

  “No,” said Youngster, “but we have to call you something, since we’re not using real names. Don’t you like being called Miss Ironfist? I have a worse name,” he added proudly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I have the worst name of anyone in the company. Don’t you think, Enchanter?”

  Stephen shrugged. “Depends. Would you say ‘Banananose’ was better or worse?”

  Miss Ironfist’s back went up and she glanced swiftly at Banananose—there could be no doubt which one he was, with a name like that. “You are not to call him that,” she said stiffly. “It isn’t kind.”

  “Accurate, though,” said Youngster. “Don’t you think?”

  “I think,” said Tinkerfingers, “it is both unkind and accurate—which is why it was chosen.”

  “And you disapprove,” said Stephen. It was not a question.

  “You encourage people’s hatred by giving them names they dislike. Wouldn’t it be simpler to give them names they like, and earn their trust?”

  Tinkerfingers, Stephen thought, would do that. Tinkerfingers was kind, Youngster impetuous, Miss Ironfist imperious. They all had nice little slots into which he could fit them and think nothing more of it. It was time to get up and make categories for the rest of the company, find out what they were useful for. He knew he should do it.

  He had never been good at doing what he thought he ought to. He stayed where he was, and listened to Youngster and Miss Ironfist bicker about names.

  “You can argue all you like,” he said, when the argument had devolved into glaring, “but I’ll call you by the names I choose, and if you don’t like them, you can bring it up with the Jolly Executioner.”

  That, of course, set them off on a new argument, about the appropriateness of calling their esteemed leader ‘the Jolly Executioner,’ and, indeed, why Stephen thought him ‘jolly.’

  “Because he isn’t,” said Stephen. “But you knew exactly whom I meant, didn’t you?”

  “That isn’t the point!” Miss Ironfist stuck her finger into his chest. “Don’t you know who you’re—”

  “Actually,” said the Jolly Executioner, stepping up beside them, still in his hood, “I like the name. It has style.”

  “Sir!” Miss Ironfist leapt to her feet and made a half-motion, almost like she had been about to bow but checked herself. “It’s not a joke, sir—he’s mocking us! The Enchanter is making up unflattering names, trying to force us to exchange them.”

  “For your own good,” Stephen said. “I’m under oath to protect this company. Everyone knows it’s dangerous to tell an enchanter his real name, so I’m making up false names to guard the real ones. She should be thanking me.”

  “Sir, I really think it unwise to play along with any game an enchanter thinks is wise. Look at him! He’s laughing at us.”

  “I like being called the Jolly Executioner,” said the Jolly Executioner. “Everyone will call me that from now on.”

  “Sir—!”

  “Is there a problem, Miss Ironfist?”

  He had been listening. To how much of their conversation, Stephen could not have said. But, behind them and unnoticed, the Jolly Executioner had been eavesdropping. And his next words, after Miss Ironfist shook her head, proved that he, at least, had known exactly where Stephen had gone, and what he had done.

  “Prepare your snake, Enchanter. I have a surprise for you.”

  “You really needn’t.”

  “Don’t trifle with me, Enchanter. Prove your worth.” The Jolly Executioner’s gaze, through his hood, traveled on to Youngster, Tinkerfingers, and the rest of the company. He had been speaking in a low voice, too low for them to have heard, but every face was turned his way and, surreptitiously, every member of the company felt for his weapon. It was this, far more than the Jolly Executioner’s words, that showed Stephen what he meant.

  Stephen whistled.

  The serpent had not been idle. While its master had talked, it had insinuated itself into the camp, curling itself on the far side of Stephen from the fire. It waited there, indistinguishable from the snow around it, listening, spying, not tasting the air—it had no tongue—but ready to defend its master. The moment Stephen whistled, it darted forward, wrapping its body around its master, resting its head on his shoulder.

  Youngster yelped and leapt away as the snowy snakeskin brushed past him. His hands flashed to his belt and withdrew twin blades. The serpent reared its head up, ready to strike if this person attacked its master.

  “Stop!” Stephen cried.

  The serpent hesitated, twisting back questioningly. Youngster took his opportunity and plunged forward, burying both blades in the serpent’s neck.

  “I said stop! You’re going to ruin my serpent. I nearly froze my fingers off making it!”

  Youngster looked from Stephen to the serpent to the two short swords buried in the snowy neck. “Sorry,” he said, sheepishly de-impaling the serpent. “I wasn’t very effective, anyway.”

  “That’s because it’s made of snow,” Tinkerfingers said, and doubled over in laughter.

  “It isn’t funny,” Youngster said reproachfully.

  “Yes it is!”

  “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “But it—” Tinkerfingers’s laugh broke off and he shifted his stance, unfolding something click, click. Youngster was scanning the camp outskirts. Miss Ironfist had found an enormous morningstar some
where, its iron head heavier than Stephen could have lifted. Around the campsite, every other member of the company had armed himself and stood at the ready.

  The hairs on Stephen’s neck prickled, and his palms grew sweaty, but he still had no idea what had alerted the company. He wanted to ask, but didn’t dare speak. He ran his hands along his serpent, making sure it was sound.

  His one weapon, an enchanted bronze knife, had been confiscated in Crying. He cleared his throat to ask for another—and saw movement between the trees. Something was out there—no, more than one thing—a pack.