The Exotic Enchanter

by L. Sprague De Camp

  The Exotic Enchanter

  L. Sprague de Camp

  &

  Christopher Stasheff

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1995 by L. Sprague de Camp & Christopher Stasheff

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, N.Y. 10471

  ISBN: 0-671-87666-X

  Cover art by Ruth Sanderson

  First printing, June 1995

  Distributed by

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York. N.Y. 10020

  Printed in the United States of America

  Also by L. Sprague de Camp & Christopher Stasheff:

  The Enchanter Reborn

  Also by L. Sprague de Camp:

  Rivers of Time

  The Fallible Fiend

  The Incorporated Knight (with Catherine Crook de Camp)

  The Undesired Princess & The Enchanted Bunny (with David Drake)

  The Complete Compleat Enchanter (with Fletcher Pratt)

  Also by Christopher Stasheff:

  Dragon’s Eye

  The Gods of War

  Wing Commander: End Run (with William R. Forstchen)

  CONTENTS

  Excerpt

  Synopsis

  Part I: Enchanter Kiev

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  Part II: Sir Harold And The Hindu King

  Part III: Sir Harold Of Zodanga

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  Part IV: Harold Sheakspeare

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  Excerpt

  There Are Some Things Men Were Not Meant to Know. . .

  The Polovets warrior ran off toward the river, tearing off his clothes as he ran.

  He wasn’t the only one. Polovtsi swatted, punched and clawed at themselves, making their ragged clothes even more so. Some drew their knives and started slashing at their garments or even stabbing at themselves, although Shea noted that none of those seemed to hit a vital spot.

  In what must have been less than five minutes, the camp area was completely empty of live, or at least conscious, Polovtsi. A couple lay staring at the sky, after stabbing themselves or perhaps knocking themselves silly falling off their horses.

  “By God’s Holy Mother, Egorov Andreivich!” Igor exclaimed. “That was like something out of a tale. What did they see?” There was more than a touch of awe in the look Igor gave Shea, but also more than a touch of comradeship.

  “Rurik Vasilyevich and I gave them a good look at their lice, Your Highness. Ah, does Your Highness know what a louse looks like?”

  “Monsters,” Igor said.

  Shea nodded. “Exactly. The Polovtsi saw themselves covered with monsters, and panicked.”

  The prince’s look was now one of complete amazement. “No bogatyr in any tale ever did a thing like that.”

  Synopsis

  WITH THE SYLLOGISMOBILE ALL UNIVERSES ARE POSSIBLE

  When last seen, Harold Shea, the Incomplete Enchanter, and Reed Chalmers, his partner in interdimensional derring-do, had just managed to escape the wrath of Apollo — but a parting shot from the god had sent their “syllogismobile” careening through the mythological universes.

  Their next point of contact is the Russia of Prince Igor, from whence the fierce Polovtsi warriors pursue them into and through an Arabian Nightmare. And where-oh-where is the wicked Malambroso, kidnapper of Chalmers’ wife — to say nothing of the delicious Florimel herself, object of their own pursuit? To shake their fierce pursuers, they leap again, this time into the universe of Edgar Rice Burroughs, where they are pursued on thoatback across the dead dry sea bottoms beneath the hurtling moons of Barsoom. Next port of call: Shakespeare’s The Tempest, a brave new world with goblins in it — from whence Shea and company well nigh instantly conceive an urgent desire to get far, far away.

  Fortunately, the Incomplete Enchanter’s spells always save the day, even if not quite as their caster intended. . . .

  Part I:

  Enchanter Kiev

  Roland J. Green

  And

  Frieda A. Murray

  I

  The kaleidoscope of colored dots had slowed to an occasional swirl of green and purple ones. Now that their eyes could focus again, Sir Reed Chalmers, Ph.D. etc., etc., and Sir Harold Shea, Ph.D. took a good look at the country in front of them. It was virgin forest, some willow but mostly birch and oak, with the hint of yellow in the leaves that heralds autumn. The ground cover was thick brush, with an occasional wildflower.

  There was only enough wind to stir the leaves, but the temperature said “autumn” even more than the yellow-tinged leaves. It was brisk enough to stimulate minds fogged by their transition from the world of the Aeneid.

  “We’ll need something heavier than these tunics and cloaks,” Shea remarked, pulling his cloak tight and his tunic down. “This is not a Mediterranean climate.”

  “Obviously, my boy,” Chalmers replied. “Have you any speculation as to where we might be?”

  “In a temperate-zone forest,” Shea suggested. “They all look alike to me, and they turn up in mythology and literature from all over the world.”

  He looked around, trying to wave away the flies that sought the blood on his clothes and hands. They had left mythological Carthage shortly after attending a sacrifice, with no chance to wash.

  They were in a sort of clearing, but otherwise Shea saw nothing but forest in all directions. He heard rustles and chirpings, but except for the flies and an occasional flash of wings, no animal life was visible.

  The sky was a pale blue, almost cloudless. By the sun it was somewhat past noon. Far off in the eastern sky Shea could make out what must be a large bird, the colour of a gaudy sunset. No clues there.

  The land was fairly level, but sloped downward a trifle toward the south. As Shea watched, the previously motionless forest began to stir from that direction. Rabbits hopped, squirrels ran, and he caught a glimpse of a fox slinking by. A few minutes later they heard shouts and curses; the voices sounded human.

  “Let’s get under cover,” Chalmers said.

  They crouched behind a waist-high clump of bushes, thick enough to scratch skin, which only encouraged the flies. Presently two men jogged into the clearing, both carrying long spears with barbed iron heads. They wore wide-skirted, knee-length coats, embroidered around the sleeves and hems, baggy trousers, and calf-length boots. They had bushy beards, and wore large round fur caps.

  Two others followed, similarly armed and dressed. All appeared to be short of breath. They also appeared to be of normal proportions, not the outsized heroes of the Aeneid.

  More cries and curses, and a full-grown brown bear, at least five hundred pounds, loped into the clearing. Its muzzle was wet and its temper obviously foul. To Shea, whose head was about two feet above the ground, its stained yellow claws looked as long as butcher knives.

  Four more men followed the bear, and three of them flung their spears. One glanced off the bear’s shoulder. A second struck the animals side, but the third, badly aimed, landed beside the watchers in the thicket, a little too close to Shea for comfort.

  Remembering his lessons as Aeneas’
s spear-bearer, Shea seized the six-foot shaft. Muttering:

  “Backward, turn backward. O spear, in thy flight,

  Speed to thy target and dim the bears light,”

  He aimed a yard from a spearless man, and threw.

  The spear arcked down just close enough to the hunter for him to snatch at it, then somersaulted on its point before he could grip it and hurled itself butt-first at the bear. It struck a skull-cracking blow to the bear’s head, then dropped to the ground.

  Seven of the eight hunters hastily made gestures of aversion, but the eighth, the leader by his elaborate coat and high embroidered cap, thrust his spear through the bear’s eye. They all waited a few minutes, but the bear stayed dead.

  The leader glanced around the clearing. “Greetings and thanks to he who has helped us,” he said in a strong. resonant voice. “I am Igor Sviatoslavich, Prince of Seversk. Pray join us. You have my word that you will not be harmed.”

  In the thicket Chalmers looked a little dubious.

  “They know we’re here, and they can always prod us out with those spears,” Shea reminded him, and rose.

  At eye level, the prince was a good six feet tall, with a stem, noble face. Approaching, Shea swept a respectful bow — he’d certainly had enough practice — and Chalmers followed.

  “I am honored to have been of service to the noble prince of Seversk,” Shea began, trying to figure out where and when Seversk might be. Seven spears at his back didn’t help. “This is Sir Reed Chalmers, and I am Sir Harold Shea.”

  The prince hesitated, then asked in a tone that conveyed more suspicion than courtesy, “Ah, have you no patronymic?”

  “Andre-ivich,” Shea said, tacking on the Slavic suffix at the last minute. And my colleague is “Reed, uh —”

  “My father’s name was William.” said Chalmers.

  “Rurik Vasilyevich! A name of good omen!” the prince said. The thumps behind them told Shea that spears were being grounded. “How do you come to be in the forest?” Igor continued. “You have not the aspect of hunters.”

  “We are, um, scholars, from the West,” Chalmers answered. “I fear we, ah, lost our way, and wound up here.”

  “What was your destination?”

  “We were trying to reach the Silk Empire,” Shea said, taking inspiration from Igor’s cap as Chalmers’s inventiveness wore out.

  “Was there trouble along your way, that you did not go south, to Constantinople? Any merchant could have told you that eastbound caravans start from there, not the lands of the Rus.”

  “Merchants in the west are very secretive, Your Highness. They tell so many fabulous tales about the lands to the east that our — superiors — have sent us to seek the truth.”

  The prince looked dubious. “You carry no books or paper,” he said.

  With a sigh for his library in Ohio, Shea began a polite precis of the difficulties of carrying valuable and fragile objects through unsettled lands —

  “Therefore, Your Highness, we keep them safely, and pull them out only when necessary.” Gesturing, he recited:

  “Who hath a book hath friends at hand,

  And gold and gear at his command

  And rich estates if he but look,

  Are held by him who hath a book,”

  A leather-bound, gold-stamped edition of the Almanach de Gotha popped out of thin air. Shea grabbed for it, caught it with one hand just before it hit the ground, and nearly dropped it from the weight. Carefully using both hands, he presented the stout volume to Prince Igor. The prince looked, but did not touch.

  “The Rus honor learning, Egorov Andreivich. and I would know more of you, and yours,” the prince said. “You and Rurik Vasilyevich will dine with me tonight.”

  “We are honored to be your guests,” Chalmers said.

  * * *

  Leaving all but two of his men to skin the bear and haul the meat, Prince Igor led the way out of the clearing. Once out there was a suggestion of a path to the south, very easy to miss.

  “Do you have any ideas about who these people are?” Shea asked, as they trailed the rest of the party.

  “None, except that they are Slavs. I cannot recall any mythology or work of literature with this background,” Chalmers’ frustration was evident. your small magics have worked well, so far.”

  “Literally, I should say.”

  “What led you to try those in particular?”

  Shea considered. “With the spear. it was a little insurance for something I was pretty sure I could do. The book — well, I had to do something. Prince Igor sounded pretty suspicious. We don’t want to get locked up for spies, or something.”

  “At least we know we shall have to be careful in our phrasing here. Even a wish might produce something inappropriate”

  “That’s nothing new, Doc. But I’ll keep ’em small and precise for the time being.” He looked ahead; the forest was thinning out. “Maybe dinner will tell us something about this place.” Then he looked at the Almanach de Gotha, which he didn’t know how to return. “We need some sort of reference spell, Doc, for places like this.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Chalmers said.

  On the edge of the forest they passed a rough two wheeled cart to which a shaggy pony was hitched. A peasant lounged nearby. Igor sent them back up the forest trail.

  After leaving the trees, Igor led the party along a small river through a logged off stretch, then up a steepish incline to a walled compound set against another stand of forest. Inside were about six one-story log huts, with thatched or shingled roofs.

  Prince Igor entered the largest of these, He came back to the doorway just as the psychologists, beginning to pant from the hike and the climb, reached it. The prince offered a flat basket to Chalmers. It contained two small loaves on a coarse linen napkin, and some large gray nuggets on another.

  “Bread and salt, Doc,” Shea muttered. “Can’t refuse.”

  Dr. Chalmers looked annoyed, but bowed, took a loaf, dipped it in the salt, and chewed — carefully. To judge from his reaction it was dry but edible. Shea followed suit.

  “Enter my house,” Igor said with a slight bow, moving back from the threshold. “Although perhaps you would care to visit the bathhouse first,” he added.

  The psychologists accepted this evidence of civilization with exclamations of gratitude. A servant appeared in the doorway, and led them to one of the smaller buildings in the compound.

  At the doorway he asked for their clothes, saying that clean ones would be provided. Stripped to the skin, the two entered.

  Inside the steam was so thick they could scarcely see each other, and so hot that Shea’s sinuses, which had behaved well in other universes, gave him a painful reminder of their existence. An imprecation from Chalmers clued Shea to his partners whereabouts.

  “The Russian bath has a long way to go,” the younger man agreed.

  Groping about, they found benches, and wooden trays holding a greasy soap and bundles of reeds. These primitive substitutes for Ivory and washcloths actually got rid of blood and dirt.

  They also got rid of aches and pains, and produced a wonderful feeling of lassitude. Shea found himself drowsing on a bench, unsure how long he’d been sitting there.

  Eventually they heard the servant ask if they were to come out. When they answered yes, the other door of the bathhouse opened. They exited onto an open porch, where two large and well-aimed buckets of cold water were splashed over each of them.

  Chalmers yelped, but the cold water had shocked a memory into Shea’s conscious mind.

  “Doc,” Shea said, “I think I know where we are.”

  Chalmers looked out inquiringly from the coarse linen towel with which he was drying himself, as Shea reached into the pile of trousers, shirts, coats, and low boots the servant had brought.

  “Remember that cocktail party for the new faculty last fall?”

  Chalmers nodded. A wealthy alumnus who had never outgrown an adolescent passion for Tolstoy had recently
endowed a chair of Russian literature. The new incumbent was an emigre who said he had taught at the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg. It might even have been true, and he was certainly the lion of the party.

  Everyone was following the elephantine choreography prescribed for such occasions when Professor Zerensky’s path intersected that of Vaclav Polacek, the bad boy of the Garaden Institute. Polite introductions had degenerated into a katzenjammer conducted in Russian, and at one point Polacek started to take off his jacket. Shea elbowed him out of danger, and after threatening to allow him nothing but water until he cooled off, asked what the fuss was all about.

  “That (Slavic epithet) had the gall to say that Borodin was a better composer than Smetanal” (More Slavic that Shea didn’t really want to have translated.)

  Shea had learned, from occasional dealings with colleagues at Notre Dame, never to argue with nationalist fanatics. He suggested that the Rubber Czech solace himself by sticking to Pilsner and boycotting the vodka.

  “I will!” Polacek said, and stuck to it.

  “It’s too bad Polacek isn’t here,” Shea concluded. “This cold water would be just the thing for him.”

  “I do not consider the theoretical virtues of the cold bath to be demonstrated in practice,” Chalmers replied. “As Florimel is not here, the impulse it is supposed to quench does not arise. If she were, there would be even less need for one.”

  “Ah, right, Doc. But this Borodin character Professor Zerensky insulted Votsy with at that party — well, his last work was an opera called Prince Igor. He died before he finished it.”

  “You mean we’re in an opera?” Chalmers cried, in the tone of someone who expects the overture to Tristan und Isolde to begin any second — and who can’t escape. “And its incomplete? Ah — are we expected to finish it?”

  “I hope not,” Shea said, with a shudder. “Anyway, someone else did, after his death. But it was based on legends of early Russian heroes, so we’re probably in those.”