My Son, the Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Yes, that is so.” Papa turned somber, too. “But you must not neglect the other theater of operations, Matthew—northern Ibile, where your King Rinaldo is hard-pressed.”

  “Right.” Matt nodded. “But all he needs is news, guerrilla training, and a resident wizard to travel with his army, if he doesn’t already have one.”

  “All things which I can do.” Papa frowned.

  Matt nodded. “And the guerrilla training, you can do better than me—you were a Marine.”

  “All well and good,” Papa said, fighting down anger, “but why do you think you can deal with Groldor better than I?”

  “Because,” Matt said, “you didn’t grow up in New Jersey. And believe me, there are some back alleys you don’t know.”

  Papa’s face turned thunderous. “I thought I told you to stay out of such places.”

  “You did,” Matt said, “but I didn’t always have a lot of choice, when bullies were chasing me. I know the hiding places, Papa, and the local customs.”

  “I could go with you!”

  “I’d love it,” Matt said fervently, “but there isn’t time—and there’s no guarantee we would be able to come back. Besides, Mama is holding off an army and needs to have someone come lift the siege, and since Alisande’s tied up with the Mahdi, the only troops who can ride to the rescue are Rinaldo’s.”

  Papa lowered his gaze, troubled; the mention of Mama in danger gave him pause.

  Matt saw, and followed up his advantage. Pitching his voice low, he said, “Besides—it’s something I have to do alone, for personal reasons.”

  Papa looked up, startled, and locked gazes. Looking into his son’s eyes, he said, “I see. You must overcome the bullies of your past by fighting their boss in New Jersey.”

  Matt nodded. “Merovence needs to have me go back, and I need to have me go back. Please, Papa. I need you in the North.”

  Matt watched his father walk away, pack on his back, eyes fixed on the north, and Matt felt very much alone. He hoped Papa knew the territory well enough by now to deal with whatever trouble he ran into.

  Papa disappeared below the crest of the hill and Matt turned away, scolding himself. Of course Papa would be okay—he was a wizard now, and had a good deal more life experience than Matt had. If worse came to worst, he could summon Lakshmi and charm her into fighting his battles for him.

  The thought relaxed him for a moment—his plot had worked. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing Papa would be out of danger, or at least in less danger than he would have found in New Jersey. Okay, he’d be in a war, but he’d be in the middle of an army, with a lot of soldiers between himself and the Moors—and if they fought guerrilla-style, they probably wouldn’t come anywhere near a pitched battle.

  Matt, on the other hand, was going to be alone against a dozen merciless thugs. He felt himself turn hollow at the thought and tried to remind himself that some of the villains he’d faced in Allustria and Ibile had to be worse than anything New Jersey could produce—but he had a hard time believing that one, too.

  Papa had given in kind of easily, though. Matt wondered if he should feel hurt, or suspicious.

  He turned back to pack away the food and douse the campfire. Then he remembered Callio, and was surprised to discover that his backpack was still there. For that matter, he was surprised to find the campfire was still there.

  Then, when he looked around, he was even more surprised, for the one thing that wasn’t there was Callio.

  Matt’s first impulse was huge relief—the thief had been a bit of a burden, or at least a bother. He felt rather ashamed of the emotion, but there it was.

  Not that it mattered—he was going to New Jersey alone, anyway. He tried to recall the tune and lyrics of the latest rock song he’d heard there, and had to work hard to think them in English instead of the language of Merovence. He succeeded, though, and began to sing. The peculiar biorhythms of the piece began to reverberate through him; he felt his heartbeat synchronizing with it, felt the English words coming with less and less effort, and the world began to go gray around him...

  Just before the world went crazy, he felt two hands seize his arm, hard, but his trance was too deep to bother shaking them off. A vagrant thought flitted through his mind, that if anyone from Merovence wanted to come along to his native universe, they deserved what they got.

  Then the world swirled around him, shapeless, formless, and the familiar dizziness swept him away.

  Papa descended the trail, glanced back to make sure Matt was out of sight, then dropped his pack behind a rocky outcrop and called, softly, sweetly, and in his most enticing tone,

  “Lakshmi, most beautiful of the djinna!

  Come to the aid of this unworthy sinner!

  Assistance I beg, for I wish to live,

  And need such help as you alone can give.”

  A dust devil boiled up out of the ground before him, towered swirling and rumbling over him, threatening and dark. Then it pulled in on itself and became Lakshmi, pivoting in place as in a dance, slowing and halting to glare at him, defiant and truculent. “What do you wish of me now, O Unnaturally Virtuous Man?”

  “Assistance that you may find enjoyable,” Papa said; then, quickly, because of the gleam in her eye, “No, not that kind. But my son has foolishly decided to go to another universe, another world, and battle an arch-sorcerer and his minions alone, with no weapons other than his magic—and spells will not work as well there as they do here.”

  “But a djinna’s magic, even diminished, may turn the tide?” Lakshmi asked sourly. “Well, I have been to other worlds before—no, do not gawk like a peasant seeing a city for the first time! We djinn have many powers that you know not of. But what reward shall I have for my efforts, eh?” She raised a hand to forestall his answer. “I know, I know, your undying gratitude! Well, you shall die long before I, I doubt not.”

  “I was going to say,” Papa protested, “that I shall aid you in your hour of need.”

  “Your son already has, and the fool would not take such reward as I wished to give! Why should you do differently? Nonetheless, I shall do the two of you this one favor more. Do not push too hard at the boundaries of my gratitude, O Man!”

  “I regret that I must do so,” Papa said meekly, “for I have nowhere else to turn for the kind of help that we need.”

  “Then do not put yourself into such straits again!” Lakshmi snapped, and wound up to start whirling again.

  “And might I ask one more boon?” Papa asked quickly.

  Lakshmi froze and gave him a dagger-glance. “I do not promise to grant it—but ask!”

  “That you take me to my son in his hour of need,” Papa said quickly.

  “If I have a whole hour in which to do it, yes. If help must be given on the instant, I will help him myself and without you,” Lakshmi snapped. “I say again, O Wizard, do not ask too much!”

  “Forgive me,” Papa said, all meekness.

  “My mother told me never to trust a man with honeyed words,” Lakshmi sniffed, “especially if he was in love with another! You should have summoned me before your son married, foolish mortal! Even so, I shall guard him for you. Farewell!” She spun into her whirl, too fast for him to get another word in edgewise, blurred into a howling whirlwind, and sank into the ground.

  Papa smiled with fond amusement. Really, he was coming to like Lakshmi immensely. She might complain about it, but the poor thing was so blatantly in love with Matthew that all Papa had needed to do was to say that his son might be in danger. There was no chance that Lakshmi would have refused. Considering Matthew’s misspelling in his freeing her of her lamp, she had no chance at all.

  The huge lock ground and clanked, the door grated open, and Mama stepped into Beidizam’s chamber with Saul behind her. “I trust you are comfortable, milord.”

  “As comfortable as I may be, in a Frankish castle,” Beidizam grumbled, “but I thank you for a proper bed and windows, even if they are mere arrowslits, and barred.
”

  “I hope to treat you as a noble guest deserves,” Mama said demurely. “Is there anything you wish, that we may supply?”

  “Other than guards who understand the words I speak, so that I need not pantomime my wants?”

  “Other than that, yes.”

  “Well, a houri or two, some properly cooked food, and some Moorish sweetmeats would do nicely.”

  “I feared you would find our way of living too modest.” Mama sat in a small, straight chair. “But surely it is better than your tent and field quarters.”

  “Well, it is that,” Beidizam admitted. “Still, you might tell me how you have bound every spell I utter, so that it might as well never have been spoken.”

  “Because it has not been,” Mama said simply.

  Beidizam stared.

  “I have tangled your tongue, milord,” Mama said with gentle sympathy. “When you speak to anyone but me, your lips will not form the words your mind has chosen—they will only spout nonsense syllables.”

  “How is it I have not noticed this?” Beidizam demanded.

  “Because you hear only the words you intended to say,” Mama explained. “Others hear only the random noises your mouth makes instead.”

  “Ingenious!” Beidizam’s eyes glowed with reluctant admiration. “But how is it you understand my words?”

  “I made that one exception when I cast the spell, milord—that when you are in my presence, your tongue is straightened, and your lips once more do your bidding. When I am with you, your mouth speaks the words your mind intends.”

  “If that is truly so...” Beidizam said, and rubbed one hand over the other.

  Saul saw, and leaped. “Stop that! Lady Mantrell, he’s rubbing his...”

  Smoke billowed out of Beidizam’s hand, turning into a huge genie with bulging eyes and boar’s tusks. “Who summons the Genie of the Ring?”

  “I, Beidizam!” the Moor cried. “Take us from this place, O Genie! Take all in this room to my tent outside the city!”

  Mama instantly chanted in Spanish.

  “I hear and obey!” the genie thundered to Beidizam, then turned to Mama and Saul, gesturing.

  Saul pulled a dried herb from his pocket and caught Mama’s shoulder with the other hand as he chanted quickly,

  “Touch-me-not, the flower’s called.

  By that flower, your magic’s stalled.

  Shout and threaten as you will,

  Inviolate we stand, unmauled.”

  The genie finished his gesture, chanting in Berber. There was a blinding flash of light.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Saul held tight to Mama’s shoulder even as he swung his hand up to shield his eyes, staggering back against the wall. Then the glare was gone, and he lowered his hand to stare around at the cell, empty now except for its furniture, Mama, and himself—and some very large afterimages.

  “How foolish of me!” Mama cried. “I should have foreseen this!”

  “We didn’t know how clever he was,” Saul groaned, “or how quick. I should have seen it coming, too.”

  Mama shook her head in reluctant admiration. “He may be a sexist beast, but he is a formidable adversary. I should have wondered why he wore so many rings! I should have realized that Beidizam could work a spell in my presence!”

  “You realized that last part, at least,” Saul reminded her. “That’s why you brought me along, remember? For backup. Turned out you were right, too.”

  “But I should have suspected those rings!”

  “Why?” Saul shrugged. “Neither of us is a jeweler, and Beidizam was so obviously vain that he would have seemed odd if he hadn’t had a ring on every finger. And neither of us is an expert on genie lore, either. Yeah, I remember the Slave of the Ring who got Aladdin out of the cave, but mostly you think of genies as living in lamps.”

  “You are good to ease my feelings, Saul,” Mama said, a little less distressed, “but still I burn with anger that an enemy has outmaneuvered me. Worse, he shall now seek to out-maneuver us in war!”

  She swept out the door toward the stairs, calling to the guards, “My compliments to Sir Guy and Sir Gilbert, and I would appreciate it if they would wait on me in my solar. We must have a council of war!”

  The soldiers stared, then ran.

  Saul caught up with her. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse,” Mama snapped. “The only question now is whether the Moors will attack tomorrow, or the next day!”

  Under the railroad bridge, the air thickened, then thickened more, until it coalesced into Matt, blinking about him in surprise. He hadn’t really expected to arrive at night. Good thing, though, come to think of it—the cops might not be too understanding about somebody wearing doublet and hose, especially when they were so worn and travel-stained as Matt’s.

  He took a step out, glancing to left and right to see if he was alone. He thought he saw movement under a streetlight, and turned back—to find Callio huddled against the wall, trembling.

  Matt stared, then stepped up. “So it was you who grabbed my arm! Were you really trying to hold me back?”

  “Who...?” The thief looked up. “Oh no, Lord Wizard! But I made sure you would not leave without me—life has been so much more interesting since I joined you!”

  “Not to say profitable, hm?” Matt shook his head. “Well, don’t try lifting anything here, Callio. We have a lot of thieves, and they resent anyone poaching on their territory. The citizens are also pretty careful,” he added, “and the shopkeepers are worse.”

  “If... if you say so, Lord Wizard.” But Callio was clearly disappointed.

  “I came here to fight a villain,” Matt told him. “This could get dangerous. You’d better stay here and wait; I’ll come back and get you if I can.”

  “If you can?” Callio stared. “What could prevent you?”

  “Death,” Matt snapped. “The outlaw I’m going up against is very mean, and he has some extremely tough bodyguards. They also have magical weapons, like the one Luco tried to use on us. You’re far safer staying here.”

  “Yes, if you live! But if you don’t, I’m stranded here in a world that is foreign to me!” Callio crept out and took a quick look at the railroad station, the cobblestoned yard, the streetlights—and just then, a commuter train came roaring by. For a minute, the whole world was filled with its thunder, resounding and echoing under the bridge. Callio cried out in panic and clung to Matt.

  “Okay, so you’re coming along,” Matt said, disgusted—but he also remembered that even if he got through this alive, he might not have time to come back to this bridge before he returned to Merovence.

  “Thank you, Lord Wizard,” Callio whimpered.

  “But if you’re going to come along, you’ll have to do as I say—and do it instantly, understand? There isn’t going to be time to explain.”

  “Surely, Lord Wizard! Yes, surely!” Callio nodded so hard Matt was afraid his head would fall off.

  “Okay, wait for magic,” Matt said, and stepped deeper into the shadow under the bridge, reciting,

  “Like Coleridge without his pipe,

  Or Poe without his opiate,

  Let each who swallows Groldor’s salt

  Be stone-cold sober, never hyped,

  Untouched by the dope he ate,

  Nevermore to know the fault

  Of addict’s craving. Never ripe

  Their dependence shall be. Overjoyed,

  They’ll find addiction’s null and void!”

  He felt the magic field thicken about him, only a pale echo of the Merovencian phenomenon—but a counterforce sprang up to resist it almost immediately, and Matt found his whole body straining against it. As he finished the last couplet, he felt the whole field collapse, and staggered, leaning against the wall, gasping.

  A hand touched his shoulder. “Are you well?” Callio asked, on the verge of panic.

  “Just... peachy.” Matt pushed himself away from the wall, still panting. “It... worked. Just fine.�
��

  “But nothing has happened,” Callio protested.

  “Maybe,” Matt said. “Maybe not. We won’t know until we meet the man we’ve come to find.”

  “How shall we find him, then?”

  “I don’t think we’ll have to,” Matt said slowly. “If I have him figured right, he’ll find us—and fast, too. Before that happens, though, we’ve got some other things to do. Let’s go.”

  He started out, Callio right on his heels, staying near the retaining wall in hopes of shadow. “Brace yourself for a lot of odd things...”

  “Odder than that dragon that roared over our heads?”

  “Yes, in their way. You’re going to see carriages that look like giant beetles, and move without horses...”

  “Magic!” Callio cried, eyes round.

  “Hey, it’s my hometown,” Matt said. “And there’re a lot of watchmen, only they wear light blue shirts and dark blue trousers, loose trousers, not tight like your leggings...”

  “Ought we not to dress like them?”

  “We should, but I didn’t have the foresight to bring along a change of clothing,” Matt said. “So if one of the watchmen stops you to ask about your funny clothes, you tell him... Callio? Callio, where are you!”

  “Here, Lord Wizard.” Callio materialized out of the darkness, holding up two shirts and two pairs of jeans. “Are these the clothes of which you speak?”

  Matt stared. “Where did you find those?”

  “I espied them hanging from a rope in a yard near this roadway. They may not fit too well, but these watchmen you speak of will find us less remarkable in them.”

  “You’re right about that,” Matt admitted. “I hate to take somebody else’s clothes, but right now, I’m afraid we need them worse than they do.” He pulled his purse out of his tights, drew out two large pieces of silver, and said, “Clip these to that rope where you got these clothes, okay?”