Calling on Dragons

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “You mean the vines might do something to me, too, if I ate them? Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I did.”

  “You told me they were dangerous! You didn’t say they were magical.”

  Trouble gave Killer a look of deep disgust. “You think normal plants get named invisible dusk-blooming chokevines?”

  “But they aren’t invisible!” Killer protested. “Not to me.”

  “Then maybe nothing would happen to you if you ate one,” Cimorene said. “You can experiment later. Morwen, are you finished? We’ve been longer than five minutes, and I’d like to get going again.”

  “I’m done.” Climbing to her feet, Morwen tucked the sample bags and trowel into her sleeve and smiled. “And I believe I’ve thought of a way to speed up the rest of the trip. Have you got any rope in your pack?”

  18

  In Which They Concoct a Plan

  CIMORENE LOOKED AT MORWEN, frowning. “Rope? I think so. Why?”

  “So we can tow Killer,” Morwen said. “Between the laundry basket and the broomstick, we should have plenty of power, and we’ll be able to go a lot faster, now that we’re out of the trees.”

  “Good idea,” Brandel said. “It’s a pity you didn’t think of it sooner. I’ve got plenty of rope back at the tower.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Killer said. “It doesn’t sound very comfortable.”

  “Do you want to run all the way to Vamist’s house?” Morwen said. “That’s your other choice. Take it or leave it.”

  Killer took it, but not without grumbling the whole time they spent rigging a harness for him and tying it to the laundry basket and broomstick.

  “This is undignified,” he complained as they prepared to start off once more.

  “What’s so dignified about a six-foot floating blue donkey with oversized wings?” said Scorn.

  “I’m very . . . very . . . Eee-augh! Help! Slow down! Oh, I knew this was a bad idea. Rabbits weren’t meant to go this fast.”

  Morwen glanced back and almost laughed. Killer hung at the end of the tow ropes, all four feet braced against the air (which did him no good whatsoever). His wings and ears streamed behind him in the wind. On his back, barely visible between the blue ears and feathers, Scorn and Horatio lay flat with their front claws dug into the rope harness.

  Smiling, Morwen turned back to concentrate on flying the broomstick. Despite Killer’s loud complaints, by her standards they were not traveling particularly fast. Between the extra weight on both broom and basket and the energy it took to pull Killer, Morwen estimated their speed at about a third of her usual rate. Still, it was much faster than walking, especially over the open meadows that stretched ahead of them.

  They had gone several miles and Killer’s objections had degenerated into occasional terrified brays when Brandel slowed the laundry basket. Morwen matched his reduction in speed, and a moment later they landed in a small stand of trees near the top of a hill.

  “That’s enough of that!” Killer said. “I don’t care if you want to get there quickly, I don’t care if I have to run, I don’t care if those wizards turn me into a pancake and eat me for breakfast. I’m not doing that again.”

  “You won’t have to,” Brandel said, climbing out of the laundry basket. “Vamist’s house is over this hill and down the road about a quarter of a mile.” He looked at Cimorene a little apologetically. “I know you’d rather be closer, but with him making all that noise—”

  “You’d make noise, too, if you were being hauled along three times as fast as any reasonable rabbit should go,” Killer said unrepentantly.

  “Well, you’re not being pulled anywhere now, so be quiet,” Cimorene said. “If you do anything that messes up our getting Mendanbar’s sword, I’ll . . . I’ll turn you into a pancake and eat you myself.”

  “You can’t do that!” Killer’s ears jerked nervously. “Can you?”

  “I can try.”

  “Killer will behave himself.” Morwen looked at her cats. “Scorn and Trouble will see to it.” And between keeping Killer out of mischief and acting as lookouts, the cats might actually have so much to do that they wouldn’t get up to anything unfortunate. She hoped.

  Cimorene nodded and turned to Brandel. “How easy will it be to sneak up on this house without being seen?”

  “It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Brandel replied. “There are a lot of trees and bushes around the house.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “What about these?” Brandel asked, waving at the empty laundry basket and broomstick.

  “Leave the basket here,” Morwen said. “It’s too awkward to carry, and I can always enchant another one for you when this is all over. I’ll take the broomstick in case Cimorene and I need to get away quickly.”

  “Then we’re ready,” Cimorene said. “Let’s go.”

  Twisting his rings absently, Telemain nodded and started up the hill. The rest followed in silence. No one seemed to feel much like talking as they went up over the hill and down the tree-lined lane on the other side.

  A few minutes later, Brandel stopped and looked at Cimorene. “Vamist’s house is just around the bend. If you and Morwen cut through these bushes and head off to the right, you should come out in his backyard.”

  “Good,” said Morwen. “Scorn, Trouble, run ahead and find out which room the sword is in and where Antorell and Vamist are. Don’t forget to come back and let me know.”

  “We aren’t amateurs,” Scorn said, switching her tail.

  “Right,” said Trouble. “And Kazul’s not here, so I get first crack at the wizard.” He stood up and stretched to show that it wasn’t all that important, then vanished into the bushes.

  “I don’t know why you care so much about the wizard,” Scorn said, following. “That obnoxious idiot with no hair is the one I want dibs on. The things he said . . .”

  Frowning, Morwen looked after the cats. “When we get back I’m going to have to make one of them tell me just what Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist said when he called the other day. Scorn is really annoyed.”

  “Yow mrow,” said Horatio, and began washing his left front paw.

  A few minutes later, the two cats returned. “Vamist and Antorell are in a big room with glass doors at the side of the house,” Trouble reported. “They’ve got the sword on the table and they’re arguing.”

  “Arguing?” said Morwen.

  “About what to do with the sword. Vamist thinks the Society of Wizards should stick it into a rock and leave it somewhere because that’s traditional, but Antorell says that’s only for important swords that are supposed to be found again. I don’t think he knows what that sword does.”

  “Or else he doesn’t want it found,” said Scorn.

  “Hmph. We’ll see about that.” Morwen turned to the others. “Trouble says things haven’t changed much since we saw them in the mirror. Cimorene and I will leave now; Killer, you come with us.” She looked at Telemain. “You two get ready, and I’ll send Scorn to signal you when to knock on the door.”

  “Good luck,” Telemain said, and the two groups started off in different directions.

  Sneaking up on Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist’s house was much easier than Morwen had expected. The garden at the rear of the house was wildly overgrown, so there were plenty of shrubs to hide behind, and most of the windows were covered with dense vines. As far as Morwen could tell, all anyone would be able to see out of those windows were the back sides of leaves.

  As they approached, Scorn vanished under a scraggly chrysanthemum. She returned a moment later. “They’re still arguing. The doors are over here on the left.”

  Morwen translated for Cimorene, who nodded and murmured, “Good. Killer, you stay here. And don’t eat anything. Arona Vamist consorts with wizards, so there’s no telling what he has in his garden.”

  Weeds, mostly. It looks as if he hasn’t paid attention to it for years, Morwen thought, but this was no time to say so. She loo
ked at Scorn and said softly, “As soon as we’re next to the doors, go around to the front so Telemain and Brandel will know when to knock.”

  “No problem,” said Scorn.

  “And don’t forget to come back when they’ve seen you,” Trouble said. “You don’t want to get left behind.”

  Scorn looked at him. “I won’t be left behind. Telemain’s the one who’s doing the transport spell.”

  “Enough,” said Morwen. “Do your jobs and argue about it later.” She started toward the corner of the house.

  “Are you going to be long?” said Killer.

  “Keep your voice down,” Cimorene whispered. “I don’t know, so stay alert. We’re going to be leaving in something of a hurry.”

  Trouble snorted. “There’s an understatement.”

  Cautiously, they edged up to the corner, leaving Killer to watch anxiously from among the vines. Long ago, someone had built a stone patio along the far side of the house, with a flower border along the south edge and a row of tall bushes to the west for privacy. Now, weeds and grass grew in the cracks between stones, the bushes were an untidy mass of prickly twigs, and the flower border was full of thistles. Cimorene and Morwen had to step carefully to avoid being stuck.

  Scorn directed them to a spot that was in easy reach of the glass doors but still out of sight. As soon as they were in position, Trouble insinuated himself between the vines and the wall of the house and crept around the corner and out of sight.

  “He’s ready,” said Scorn after a minute. “See you later.” She threw Morwen a slow blink of affection and disappeared into the unpruned hedge.

  The wait that followed seemed to last hours. Morwen could feel Cimorene’s tension, and she was not exactly calm herself. Planning to avoid a direct confrontation with any wizard—even if it was only Antorell—was all very well, but there was no guarantee that the wizard would cooperate. She fingered her sleeves, wishing that witches’ spells did not take such a long time to perform, or that there were some way of storing them for quick use, the way wizards did.

  The ivy trembled, and an instant later Trouble appeared. “They’ve left the room. Both of them. And the sword is just sitting on the table.”

  “Did you spot any alarm spells?” Morwen asked.

  “Nope.” Trouble lashed his tail.

  “This sounds too easy.” But Morwen turned to Cim­orene anyway and said, “They’re gone.”

  “Then let’s go.” Cimorene stepped over a patch of gigantic dandelions onto the ruined patio, and Morwen followed. Together they crossed to a set of double doors made of small rectangular windowpanes, eight down and four across on each door.

  Cautiously, Morwen tried the handle. With a sharp click, the latch opened and the right-hand door popped half an inch inward.

  They looked at each other, and without a word they leaned forward to peer through the nearest windowpane. The room looked just as empty of people as Trouble had claimed, though it was rather full of other things. Ornate chairs lined the walls, and most of them had things piled on their seats. One held a stack of books; another, a clay pot filled with dirt; a third, a stuffed pigeon sitting on a stringless violin. Two dusty suits of armor holding spears stood on either side of the far door, and the walls were covered with cobwebby pictures. In the center of the room was a large table, with two chairs pulled out crookedly from opposite sides, as if the occupants had gotten up quickly.

  In the center of the table, shiny and positively reeking of magic, lay an unsheathed sword.

  Cimorene looked at Morwen and sighed. “It must be a trap. But that’s Mendanbar’s sword in there, for certain, and we have to try to get it. And I don’t think we’re going to have much time. Any suggestions?”

  “Quit fussing and go get the silly thing,” Trouble said.

  “Are you volunteering to be first in line?” Morwen asked.

  “Why not?” Trouble rose on his back legs and set his front paws against the unlatched door. As it swung inward, he dropped to all fours once more and sauntered through. He paused just out of reach, glanced around, and then took a short running start and leapt onto the table. Looking very smug, he twitched his tail and sat down on the hilt of the sword.

  “I should have known better,” Morwen muttered. “Well, at least we know he was right about the alarms. If there were any, that performance would have set them off.”

  “Then let’s—”

  From the front of the building came a loud, angry yowl, carrying easily over and around the intervening walls. Trouble jumped to attention, straddling the sword, and Morwen took a worried half step toward the sound before she caught herself. The sword is the important thing right now, she reminded herself, but she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.

  “That’s torn it.” Shoving the door the rest of the way open, Cimorene darted inside. Morwen had no real choice except to follow.

  “Drat,” she said, and did so.

  As Cimorene ran across the two yards of open space that separated the doors and the table, Morwen felt a ripple of magic in the air. “Cimorene, stop!” she said, but she was not quite in time. The ripple hit Cimorene and froze her motionless, one hand stiffly extended toward the hilt of Mendanbar’s sword.

  “Oh!” said Cimorene. “I can’t move. Morwen, what’s happened? Can you do something about it?”

  “I am what has happened!” said a new voice, and one of the suits of armor shifted and began to change. Its hard edges blurred and darkened, and its feet and legs spread out into a long robe. The spear it held lost its head and shrank a foot and a half. Last of all, the face came clear.

  “Antorell!” said Cimorene.

  “Exactly,” the wizard said with an evil grin. “And I don’t think there’s anything at all that your witchy friend can do about me.”

  Morwen’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see about that.” She pointed at him and said firmly, “Argelfraster.”

  Nothing happened.

  19

  In Which They Confront the Villains

  A STARTLED EXPRESSION CROSSED ANTORELL’S FACE. Then he smiled smugly and said, “You see? I have taken care of your little spell.”

  Hmph, thought Morwen. I certainly don’t believe that. He’s probably just out of range. Now, how can I get close enough to melt him before he gets suspicious and freezes me?

  “How interesting that Mendanbar sent the two of you to retrieve this”—Antorell waved his free hand at the sword, and Trouble bristled—“instead of coming himself. It must not be as important to him as Father thought it was. Not that it matters now. Even if Father and the others haven’t taken control of the castle yet—”

  “Taken control of the castle?” Cimorene sounded thoroughly alarmed. “I knew there was something wrong at home.”

  “And just how was the Society of Wizards planning to take over the castle of the King of the Enchanted Forest?” Morwen asked in as politely skeptical a tone as she could manage.

  Antorell flushed angrily. “One man is no match for the combined might of the Society of Wizards.”

  “He has been until now,” Morwen said. Of course, until now he’s had the sword. It’s a good thing Cimorene sent Kazul back last night; it sounds as if Mendanbar can use the help.

  “Until now, we have not acted in concert,” Antorell said. “But yesterday morning, all of the wizards of the Society of Wizards, led by my father, the Head Wizard Zemenar, transported themselves to the Enchanted Forest to take the magic that rightfully belongs to us. By this time, they should be finishing up their work.”

  “Yesterday morning?” Morwen blinked. “So that’s what disrupted Telemain’s transportation spell! He must have gotten caught in the backwash of the Society of Wizards transporting en masse.”

  “Mendanbar and Kazul are quite capable of handling your society between them,” Cimorene said to Antorell, putting up her chin.

  The wizard frowned. “I doubt that. Father is prepared for anything.”

  “It’s hard to be prepared
for the King of the Dragons.”

  Antorell seemed to have forgotten Morwen for the moment. Hoping to move close enough for the melting spell to work, she stepped sideways around the end of the table. Unfortunately, the movement attracted his attention.

  “Halt!” Antorell raised his staff and pointed it at her. “Stay where you are, or I’ll see to it that you can’t move, either.”

  “Try it,” Trouble growled. “Just try it.”

  Muffled noises filtered through the door beside Antorell. A moment later, it swung open. Antorell glanced over and moved away as Telemain entered, supporting Brandel with one arm. Brandel’s face was a grayish white, and his eyes were glassy. Even across the room, Morwen could smell a burned odor.

  Telemain’s eyes met hers. “He lost his temper, and the reflective sidewash from the shielding enchantment on Vamist produced a temporary circulating phase inversion at the energy source. He’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

  “His own magic bounced back and stunned him,” Morwen translated for Cimorene’s benefit. Then she looked past Telemain and stiffened. Behind Telemain and Brandel, the bald, sharp-faced man they had seen in the mirror entered, carrying Scorn at arm’s length by the scruff of her neck. He had reason for caution: his hands were covered with scratches. Scorn’s eyes were narrowed to slits and she was panting for breath, but she still managed an occasional swipe with a paw. Unfortunately, she wasn’t close enough to the bald man to connect.

  “Put that cat down immediately,” Morwen said. “You’re suffocating her. Adult cats aren’t meant to be carried that way.”

  “Oh, is it yours?” said the bald man. “You should train it better. It’s not very well behaved.”

  Trouble bunched himself together and growled. If Telemain and Brandel had not been between him and Scorn’s captor, Morwen thought, he would have leapt to the rescue at once.