My Son, the Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Vulgar layabouts that want

  Words, and sweetness, and be scant

  Of self-rule’s measure,

  Tyrant pushers have abused

  So that they long since have refused

  To heed folks’ censure.

  She who now arrested thee

  Bade your joints tormented be,

  Cramp’d indenture.

  Still may syllables amain

  Loose those cramps and soothe your pain,

  But in debenture!”

  Luco relaxed with a groan.

  “You could say ‘thank you,’ ” Matt said, irritated.

  Luco dared to peek. “Is she gone?”

  “Yes, she is gone.” Papa frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  With a yell, Luco uncoiled, yanking at the trigger.

  Papa and Matt both stood, frowning darkly. “Just what in creation do you think you’re doing?” Matt asked.

  Luco stared down at his hands, cupped to hold a rifle that wasn’t there. “It’s gone!”

  “You always play air assault rifle?” Matt demanded.

  “But it was there just a second ago!” Luco cried, looking about him frantically.

  “Wizard,” asked Callio, “what is this contraption?”

  “There!” Luco lunged.

  Matt caught him and spun him around, tripping him. Luco went sprawling and burst into sobs.

  Papa looked down at him uncertainly. “I know you have been through an ordeal of the unexpected, Luco—but to be so unmanned as to weep?”

  “He’s in withdrawal.” Matt had other problems, though. He moved slowly toward the thief. “How about handing it to me, Callio? Very carefully.”

  “Is it truly dangerous?” Callio held the gun up and peered down the barrel.

  Matt caught his breath before Callio could hear the gasp rattle and said, with exaggerated calmness, “Very dangerous. Put it down carefully, Callio. Just lay it flat on the ground.”

  The thief lowered the rifle but looked up at Matt, and the wizard could almost hear the gears turning in the thief’s head. If the thing was dangerous and rare, it should have value—and it might give him some control over the wizards...

  “You just looked at your own death,” Matt explained. “If you had happened to push the wrong lever or button while you were looking into it, that gadget would have blown your head to bits.”

  With an oath, Callio dropped the assault rifle.

  Fortunately, it didn’t go off. Matt caught it up with a sigh of relief. He pointed it toward the hills, examined it quickly, and threw the lever he thought was the safety. Then he squeezed the trigger. When it wouldn’t move, he finally began to relax—but kept firm hold on the stock and barrel. “It’s this little lever right here, Callio. As long as you push it over to this side, the big lever—the trigger—is locked in place, and the rifle can’t hurt anybody.”

  “There is only one magazine in his belt, and none in his pockets.” But Papa held up a small flat envelope between thumb and forefinger.

  Matt nodded, but only said, “Probably more of them up on that ridge. I’ll have to go scout for them.”

  “I shall,” Callio volunteered. “What are they?”

  Matt was tempted—one less chore, one less delay—but decided he didn’t trust the thief farther than he could see him. “Thanks, Callio, but they’re dangerous, too—not as dangerous as the machine itself, but dangerous enough.”

  “Oh.” Callio shrank back.

  It was galling to realize that Matt probably owed his life to the thief’s acquisitive streak—but he reminded himself that it had been an accident. Callio hadn’t intended to save Matt’s life—it was just that, like a magpie, he felt the need to pick up anything that caught his eye.

  Papa was seeing to more immediate problems. “Tell us now, Luco—how did you come here?”

  The kid snarled something unprintable about something anatomically improbable.

  Papa frowned and turned away, making a gesture over the packet, muttering something under his breath.

  “Luco,” Matt said softly.

  The kid glared up at him, then stared down the barrel of the assault rifle. For a moment he froze stiff; then he relaxed, mouth quirking into contempt. “Who are you trying to kid, Mantrell? You don’t even know how to work that thing—and even if you did, you’re too chicken to use it!”

  “Too good, you mean,” Papa said, frowning. “We are not in New Jersey now. There are no police to arrest Matthew for killing you.”

  Luco kept his glare locked with Matt’s, but what he saw there seemed to unnerve him.

  Matt nodded slowly. “There’s a war on, Luco. Nobody’s going to count one body more or less.”

  “You wouldn’t do it, churchboy!”

  “Not kill,” Matt agreed, “but remember your debenture—the last line of the rhyme that killed your cramps, remember?”

  Luco eyed him with complete suspicion. “What’s debenture?”

  “Well, in your case,” Matt said, “it mostly means I can make the cramps come back at a moment’s notice.”

  Luco went very still, but his glare was pure hatred. “Always so high-and-mighty! Always thinking you were better than us!”

  “No,” Matt said, “but you did.”

  With a shout, Luco shot to his feet and charged at Matt, whipping out a switchblade. Matt stepped aside and swung the rifle; the barrel clouted Luco on the back of the head. He fell and went limp, sobbing again.

  “He is not that much of a coward, Matthew,” Papa said before he could ask. “It has only been too long since he has taken his drug.”

  “Just leave me alone!”

  “Yes, leave you alone for five minutes, so you can sniff your powder,” Papa said, and shrugged. “Why not? Come, Matthew—let us look away for a space.”

  Matt stared at him as though he were crazy, but Papa took him firmly by the arm and turned him away, pointing at the hills. “As I remember, he was atop that crest that is a little lower than the two to either side of...”

  Luco let out a wordless yell of agony, anger, and panic.

  Papa turned back to him slowly. “Yes?”

  “They’re gone!” Luco was frantically searching every pocket.

  “What—these?” Papa held up a handful of the little envelopes.

  Luco stared, mouth gaping. Then with a shout of rage, he lunged at Papa.

  Papa danced out of his way; Matt stuck out a foot, and Luco went sprawling. The kid thrashed around, eyes wild, gathering himself for another spring.

  “I think we know why you did it now,” Papa said with disgust. He tossed a packet to Luco.

  Luco pounced on it, ripping it open, pouring the powder out into his palm, and licking it up.

  Matt watched, shaking his head, face somber. Once, very long ago, Luco had been his friend. Then he had started listening to the older boys, and had started smoking marijuana. Not too long after that, he had started beating up Matt. His heart twisted with sorrow for the nice kid Luco had once been, the good man he might have grown up to be.

  “Perhaps you can heal him here, Matthew,” Papa said softly, “but not back there, and you cannot heal our old universe. Magic does not work, there.”

  Matt frowned. “You mean that’s what Luco’s trying to get?”

  Luco cursed violently.

  Papa turned, raising his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “It didn’t come on, you old swindler! It didn’t do anything!”

  “No, nothing,” Papa agreed. “Magic works in this universe, Luco. I took the kick out of that packet. If you want it back, you’ll tell me who brought you here, and how.”

  “You bastard!” Luco was trembling now. His eyes were bloodshot. “I’m getting strung out! You said you’d give it back to me—give!”

  “Ah, but I’m a storekeeper now.” Papa sat on his heels, just beyond Luco’s reach. “I don’t give anything away.”

  Luco bellowed and sprang at him.

  Papa leaped
to his feet and stepped aside. Luco went sprawling in the dirt and began sobbing again.

  “No, you cannot take it from me,” Papa said. “You want something, you pay for it.”

  Luco reached for his pocket.

  “Not money, no,” Papa said. “Information.”

  “All right, all right, anything! Just give me the packet!”

  “First the answers. Question One: Where did this new drug come from?”

  “From Groldor! Word is he moved in with a gang of his own, a bunch of cavemen with AK-47s, and put the drug out on the streets!”

  “Groldor?” Papa frowned. “I thought the drug boss in our town was Cracker. Didn’t he object?”

  “Sure, man! This new stuff, Magic, makes you forget about crack and even heroin!”

  “So it satisfies the old cravings and plants a new one,” Papa said. “What did Cracker do?”

  “Hit Groldor with everything he had. Word is it was short and hard—by the time the cops got there, only two bodies were left, and they were each holding the gun that shot the other guy. Groldor’s smart and clean.” He shivered, only partly from withdrawal.

  “Yes, I remember reading about the ‘gangland duel’ in the newspaper,” Papa said. “So he took the territory, and the gangs decided not to fight him.”

  “Why should they, when he cut them in?” Luco asked. “Gave each gang its own stash to sell—but he drew the lines, told ’em where their selling territory ended and the next gang’s began. The Tics got greedy and jumped the Sangers, but Groldor’s muscles showed up and beat them both into the ground.” He shivered again. “Bastard knew when and where the Tics were going to jump, even though the Sangers didn’t!”

  “Almost as though he could read their minds,” Matt said grimly.

  “So nobody tried to poach anybody else’s customers after that?” Papa asked.

  “ ’Course not, man! Two Tics died, and died hard!”

  “But all the gangs did good business.”

  “Fantastic, man! Groldor made ’em keep the price down, said it’d sell more, and it did! Addicts on one dose, just like crack. You feel great for an hour, okay for a day, but when you wake up, you gotta have more!”

  “So you’re in good shape long enough to steal enough to pay for tomorrow’s dose,” Papa interpreted. “I haven’t heard of the police arresting anybody, though, Luco. Why is that?”

  Luco laughed. “Stuff’s not on the banned list, man! Nowhere near! I don’t know what it is, but word has it the cop labs can’t find anything but salt! Cops can’t touch ’em! Can’t touch Groldor, can’t touch his muscles, can’t touch the gangs, can’t touch the buyers!” Luco gave them a shaky grin. “This Groldor is one smart dude.”

  Matt shuddered at the hero worship in his voice.

  “Only salt, but it takes you to Heaven and dumps you into Hell.” Papa looked up at his son.

  Matt nodded grimly. “This Magic is magic, all right, or made by it.”

  “Yes, or my spell would not have rendered it useless,” Papa said. “Does that not also mean it was made in Merovence?”

  “Made in Merovence, and Nirobus found some way for this Groldor to take it to our universe and keep the magic working.” Matt’s eyes widened. “So the link wasn’t just between universes—it was between me and my old neighborhood! That’s why it was so easy for me to get home! Sorry, Papa—it looks as though I’ve unleashed this monstrosity on all of you!”

  “Not you,” Papa snapped, “but someone who exploited you.”

  Luco grinned. “Not hard.”

  Papa turned back, and for a moment, the look he gave Luco was pure poison. He had to look away for a moment to recover his composure. “If it was made in Merovence, and Nirobus is keeping a channel open, our magic should be able to affect it even in New Jersey.”

  Hatred still shone in Luco’s eyes, but the craving was too strong. “All right! The old dude blindfolded me and started me walking. I got dizzy and almost fell down, but he held me up and kept going. When he took the blindfold off, I was up in those hills, and he was pointing at you and handing me the rifle!”

  “What old dude is this?” Papa asked, voice soothing.

  “The one who dishes out the dope to Groldor! The one with the two-thousand-dollar suits and the five-hundred-dollar hats!”

  “What kind of beard?” Matt asked.

  “Real neat! No hair on his cheeks, just mustache and jaw! Why the hell do you want to know that?”

  “Does he have a name?” Papa asked.

  “Nirobus!” the kid snapped.

  Matt stood still, feeling a shock wave pass over him. It was one thing to guess correctly but quite another to have that guess confirmed.

  “Why, Luco?” Papa asked, very softly indeed. “I was always good to you. Matthew never hurt you, though Heaven knows he had reason. Why did you scare away my customers? Why did you try to kill us?”

  “Nobody puts me down on my own block!” Luco snapped.

  “Envy and revenge, then. That’s not enough. Why else?”

  “Why? Why do you think? ’Cause this Nirobus guy told us he’d give us a lot of dope if we did it!”

  Papa nodded. “And he gave you a good stiff dose before he sent you here, yes?”

  “Not a lot, no! Just enough to make the shakes quit! He told me he’d kill me if I took any more before I killed you!”

  “Lakshmi was right, then,” Papa sighed. “You are of the hashishim.”

  “What you talkin’ about, man?” Luco shouted, on the verge of panic. “I did it, I told you what you wanted! Gimme the Magic!”

  “Yes, all right.” Papa sketched a design in the air and chanted in French. Luco stiffened, eyes widening—but the pupils shrank in those eyes, shrank to pinpoints. Then the eyelids closed, and Luco went limp, trembling, but sighing in bliss.

  Matt turned away, revolted. Papa joined him. “He is thin, Matthew, and his face is so painfully hollow!”

  Matt nodded. “The drug is letting Nirobus drain his life energy any time he wants—slowly and steadily.” He shook his head, tasting bile. “Sometimes I hate being right.”

  “It is even as you said,” Papa sighed. “The new drug showed up in the neighborhood, and suddenly the gangs were no longer fighting each other—they were terrorizing the neighbors instead, feeding on their fear and anger, so that Nirobus could feed on it through them.”

  “What did the news say, Papa? Was it happening all over, or just in our neighborhood?”

  “All over, Matthew—in all the big cities. The police were delighted at first, because the gangs stopped fighting, and there were fewer muggings. Then the robberies began to increase again, and the police were worse off than ever, because the citizens once again began to live in fear.”

  “And they wonder why people move to the suburbs!” Matt shook his head.

  Papa glanced at Luco. The trembling had stopped now. His stare was vacant, and his lips were parted in an idiotic grin.

  “We must watch him,” Papa said. “So, Matthew. This drug, you think you can neutralize it completely?”

  “Sure, same as you did,” Matt said, “but so can Groldor. As soon as the fix stops fixing, he’ll figure out what went wrong and sing the counter-enchantment.”

  Papa frowned. “So you say we must immobilize this Groldor before we disenchant the drug?”

  “Only sensible thing to do.”

  “Will not Nirobus merely send another sorcerer? Or promote one of Groldor’s henchmen?”

  “I suspect the henchmen are just local thugs, hired on,” Matt said slowly, “and sure, Nirobus will send a replacement, but it will take him a while to find one. He may even have to train one. I could be wrong—he could have a dozen sorcerers waiting in reserve—but I think the only ones he has are already assigned and on duty, one in New Jersey, one with the besiegers at Bordestang, and the rest with the Mahdi and his army.”

  “Have you reason for thinking this?”

  “Only intuition.”

  �
�And intuition is not to be lightly dismissed, even in our home universe, and even less here,” Papa said. “In any case, we must go home to deal with this Groldor, must we not?”

  Matt swallowed, feeling the fear rise. The thought of facing a drug lord with his private army was bad enough, but to have to do it in a universe where he didn’t have his magic to protect him...

  Then he remembered that a few spells had sort of worked in New Jersey, and that Nirobus had to keep the magic-channel open. He should be able to figure out how to draw on Merovence’s natural forces to make magic work in New Jersey, and if any place ever needed it... “Yes, Papa. We have to go home.”

  Saul had to admit he could look pretty scary when he wanted, and he really wanted to now. When Beidizam awoke, he saw a bearded, long-haired, blade-nosed face hovering over him with a gloating grin, lit only by the flickering flames from a brazier below it. The sorcerer stared, frozen with fear for a moment, then turned purple with rage, gargling curses through his gag. His arms lurched and spasmed, trying to gesture—but they were tied securely behind him.

  “I don’t like men who harass women.” But Saul’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “I love seeing them punished, though.”

  Beidizam froze at the leashed mayhem in Saul’s eyes. The Witch Doctor lifted a poker from the brazier; it glowed cherry red. Saul spat on it, listened to the hiss, then shook his head with regret. “Not hot enough yet.”

  He stuck it back into the coals and turned to the appalled sorcerer, saying, “You see, we have a few questions that need answering. Not that we mean to hurt you, of course—at least, nothing permanent... we hope... unless it’s absolutely necessary, of course...”

  He slid a hand under Beidizam’s robe and squeezed his leg, gently but in exactly the right place. The sorcerer went rigid, cawing with pain.

  Saul let up instantly, but explained, “That was very gentle—just a demonstration. If I’d really clamped down, you would have been in agony for hours, even after I let go. The ancient Greeks and the modern Arabs have learned a lot about anatomy, but the people farther East know a lot more—at least, in some respects...”

  Beidizam bleated incoherent protests through his gag.