The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Why should I?” the wizard asked. “He came here to slay me. The two of you are fortunate that I permit him to live in any form!”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Maribelle agreed, “it was very kind of you to let him live. But you know, he didn’t come to kill you at all, he swore to me that he didn’t!”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Of course I do! He’s my husband.”

  “And why did he come to me, then?”

  Maribelle glanced at the servant, still leaning against the wall; she couldn’t make out the wizard’s expression at all, but the woman’s face was interestingly blank.

  The time had come, Maribelle thought, to surprise Esotissimus and tell the truth.

  “Oh, he came to decide whether or not to take the job of killing you. But he hadn’t agreed yet, and he wouldn’t have, once he saw you.”

  Maribelle thought she saw the woman’s mouth twitch, as if she were suppressing a smile.

  “And you think I should forgive him for even considering an attempt to slay me?”

  “Well, yes,” Maribelle said. “It was stupid, and he should have known better, definitely—but everyone does stupid things once in awhile.”

  “And when they do, they must pay the price!” Esotissimus roared.

  “But no harm was done,” Maribelle insisted. “Won’t you please forgive him? Isn’t there anything I can offer you to change him back? We have money—we could pay you.”

  “What use do I have for earthly wealth?”

  Maribelle blinked foolishly. “The same uses as anyone else,” she said. “I know you charge people for the magic you do for them.”

  “If I did not, they would never cease to trouble me,” the wizard said. “I need no gold.”

  “Maybe we have information you could use?” Maribelle suggested. “After all, Armus knows who hired him.”

  “Derdiamus Luc,” Esotissimus said.

  “Oh,” Maribelle said, crestfallen. “You knew.”

  “Of course. My servant knew where to take the hamster, did she not?”

  Maribelle glanced at the woman leaning against the wall—she was the messenger who had delivered Armus to Luc?

  “Well, if you like, Armus could kill Luc for you,” Maribelle said.

  “I could dispose of him myself, should I choose to do so,” the wizard replied.

  That was probably true enough. Maribelle was running out of suggestions, but there was always one possibility. Her voice suddenly dropped the better part of an octave and turned husky. “Surely there must be something I can do for you?”

  “Are you offering to betray your husband?”

  “I’m trying to save my husband,” Maribelle protested, holding up the pouch.

  “I have no interest in you,” the wizard said coldly. “I am above such worldly concerns.

  “But you must be lonely…” Maribelle began. Then somewhere in her head something fell into place, and instead of finishing the sentence she turned to look at the dark-haired woman.

  A mighty wizard who claimed to be above any sort of earthly matters, but who still had one servant—and only one—who he insisted must be present during this audience. A woman who was not quite the young beauty she tried to appear. Armus hadn’t seen the wizard even move when he was transformed. And Armus tended to fiddle with weapons behind his back when he was nervous.

  Maribelle looked down at the hamster. “She was behind you when it happened, wasn’t she?” she asked.

  Armus cheebled, and Maribelle looked up in time to see the dark-haired woman’s hands raised, fingers arranged to cast a spell. Maribelle flung herself sideways, out of the line of fire, ignoring Armus’ tiny shriek of terror as he flew out of his pouch; she landed rolling on the floor, and rose to her knees as she pulled one of the concealed daggers from her sleeve.

  She didn’t want to use the knife; for one thing, it probably wouldn’t work. Even as she prepared to throw it she groped for alternatives, and one came to her.

  If her guess was right, then the black-haired woman might well want something Maribelle was uniquely equipped to provide.

  “Wait!” she shouted, as she readied the knife. “Please, wait!”

  The black-haired woman turned, hands raised to enchant.

  “Aren’t you lonely?” Maribelle called.

  The woman paused, fingers poised and ready but unmoving. Clearly she had expected Maribelle to beg for her life, or offer some sort of bribe, not repeat the question she had asked the wizard. “What?” she said.

  “Aren’t you lonely?” Maribelle repeated, lowering her dagger. “I mean, living here all alone with just him—is he even real? Wouldn’t you like someone to, you know, just talk to?”

  The woman looked at the dagger, and belated realization dawned—a realization very much like the one that had struck Maribelle. “You aren’t just an assassin’s wife, are you?” she asked.

  Maribelle risked a faint smile. “And you aren’t just a wizard’s servant.”

  The woman lowered her hands. “Go on,” she said. “What did you want to say?”

  “Armus wasn’t going to kill you,” Maribelle said. “If we’d taken the job, I would have. Armus is a sweet boy, but he isn’t much of an assassin—I’m the brains, he’s the decoy. And you’re the wizard, and that thing on the throne is just for show.” She pointed to where the wizard sat, unmoving and completely uninvolved in the rather intense discussion going on a few yards away. “You’re the brains, it’s the decoy.”

  “So now I really should kill you,” the woman said, raising her hands again. “Not only are you an admitted assassin, but you know my secret.”

  “And you know mine,” Maribelle said. “You can kill me any time—but wouldn’t you rather have someone you can talk to? Someone you can trust? Someone who’s used to keeping secrets? Aren’t there times it would be handy to have a trusted friend who’s trained at theft, deception, and assassination? Someone you can talk shop with?”

  “It would be nice,” the wizard said hesitantly. “It is lonely. But can I really trust you? Both of you?”

  “Why not?” Maribelle said. “I’ll vouch for Armus—he can be foolish, but he can keep his mouth shut, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to be a hamster. We’ve kept our secret well enough—why not yours?” She put the dagger on the floor and displayed her empty hands. “My name’s Maribelle, by the way.”

  For a moment the dark-haired woman still hesitated, but then she gave in. “I’m Essi,” she said, reaching out a hand to help Maribelle to her feet.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Maribelle said. “I’ve never met a female wizard before.”

  “I don’t think there are any others,” Essi said. “My father trained me in wizardry, but after he and my mother died no one would ever take me seriously—it’s not just that I’m female, but I’m so short, and not ugly enough for a witch. Besides, I don’t know witchcraft, just wizardry. I could have changed my appearance, but that’s so uncomfortable and hard to maintain! So I made Esotissimus over there—he’s a homunculus, sort of half-alive—and played the part of a servant.”

  “Nobody would hire a woman to fight openly,” Maribelle said, dusting off her skirt. “So I tried to hire out as an assassin, but even that wasn’t working until I teamed up with Armus.” She looked around, and spotted the hamster trying to scramble up onto the dais. “Could you please change him back?”

  “Of course,” Essi said. A moment later Armus, restored to human form, sat on the corner of the dais, looking dazed.

  “Mari?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” Maribelle answered. “Now shut up and let us talk.”

  Armus blinked. “All right,” he said. He turned and began poking experimentally at the homunculus’ unresponsive legs.

  “You really are the brains, aren’t you?” Essi asked, staring at Armus.


  “Of course,” Maribelle replied.

  Essi smiled.

  “Mari,” she said, “this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  DROPPING HINTS

  The young duke glanced around uneasily as he waited for the wizard’s door to open; he was uncomfortably aware of how very little he knew about magic in general, and the wizard Rasec in particular. Magicians were notoriously eccentric, and it was obvious from the bizarre and haphazard architecture of Rasec’s home that he was no exception. Rasec had always been a cooperative neighbor, and had never given previous dukes any real trouble—but Lord Croy was not any of the previous dukes. He was the last duke’s third son, acceding to the title only because of the recent plague that had taken his father and both his older brothers, as well as a good part of the local population.

  As the new duke, it behooved Croy to pay a courtesy call on the wizard. It would not do to antagonize his realm’s only real magician—especially when that magician might be able to assist in preventing any further outbreaks of plague.

  Croy hoped he had not erred in choosing the size of his escort; he did not want to threaten the wizard, but it would not do for the duke to travel alone. A dozen had seemed about right back at the castle, but here on the stony hilltop, at the door of the wizard’s home, the twelve guardsmen seemed like an entire mob.

  The latch rattled, and Croy looked directly forward, composing his features. The door opened, and there was the wizard’s inhuman servant.

  Croy suppressed a shudder. The creature standing in the doorway stood between four and five feet tall, with gleaming gray hairless skin, naked and sexless. Its face was narrow

  and triangular, its eyes golden, its ears large and pointed.

  “Please come in, my lords,” it said, stepping aside. “My master awaits you in his chamber of art.”

  “Thank you,” Croy replied, as he stepped across the threshold.

  He hoped he had the protocols right; he had never been trained for any of this, had never accompanied his father here. His elder brothers had both been taught a duke’s duties and privileges, but no one had seen any reason to include a third son, and now he was forced to improvise.

  He led the way into the house, his soldiers marching behind him, two abreast.

  The servant directed them down a broad corridor, and another, identical servant waited at the far end, its hand on the handle of a great oaken door. Croy, startled, glanced from one servant to the other, looking for some distinguishing marks, some way to tell them apart.

  He could see no difference at all; the two were so alike that he wondered whether Rasec might have found a way to have his servant in two places at once.

  But then the second servant opened the oaken door, and Croy was struck dumb by the wonders of the wizard’s sanctum.

  The circular chamber was vast but windowless, lit by a ring of crystal skylights; the bright midday sunlight gleamed and sparkled from a thousand strange devices arranged on shelves, mounted on iron rods, or suspended from the ceiling on wires. There were tangles of polished brass and gleaming ebony, layered constructions of silver and ivory, mummified beasts pierced by golden wires, and things that Croy could not even begin to describe.

  And in the center of the room stood Rasec, dressed in flowing robes of red and yellow silk, holding a golden scepter. Behind him stood his servant…

  A third servant, Croy realized, indistinguishable from the others.

  Croy hesitated at the door for only a fraction of a second before striding into the great room. He walked directly toward the wizard, along a red carpet laid out for him, and stopped at a polite distance, perhaps seven feet away.

  The wizard bowed deeply, and Croy felt an immense rush of relief; Rasec had acknowledged his authority.

  “My lord Duke,” the enchanter said. “Welcome to my home; you honor us with your presence.”

  Croy bowed in return, though only a small formal bob. “Thank you, Sir Wizard,” he said.

  “May I ask, your Grace, to what do I owe this honor?”

  “Of course,” Croy replied. “I have come to assure us both of the continued good will between our houses, and to discuss certain matters with you.”

  “I have only the best of intentions toward you, your Grace, as I did toward your late, lamented father. I extend my most heartfelt condolences on your recent losses.”

  “Thank you; I am reassured to hear this. As I’m sure you will understand, I have found myself thrust into a role for which I was not entirely prepared; I was not entirely certain just what arrangements might exist between my father and yourself.”

  “The arrangements are simplicity itself, your Grace—but forgive me, before we continue this, might I ask why you have brought these others with you?” He gestured over Croy’s shoulder at the dozen guardsmen.

  “Merely an honor guard, Sir Wizard. If they trouble you, perhaps you could find a place for them to wait?”

  The wizard nodded, then beckoned. “You!” he called. “Is it Nampach? See these gentlemen to the rose garden.”

  One of the gray servant creatures responded from the doorway, “Yes, sir.” Then it turned to the soldiers. “If you would follow me, please?”

  “My lord?” Telza, the squad’s captain, asked uncertainly.

  “Go with it,” Croy said. “Enjoy the flowers, find a bench and rest your feet. I’ll send for you when I need you.”

  The captain saluted, wheeled on his heel, and barked an order.

  As the party marched away, Croy said, “If you don’t mind my asking, Sir Wizard, what are those gray creatures?”

  “Homunculi,” Rasec answered. “I made them some time ago; I find them more reliable than human servants. They eat little, never sleep, and require no clothing. I have five of them, and they attend my needs quite effectively.”

  “I confess, they appear so similar that I cannot tell one from another.”

  “Yes, I cast them all in the same mold; I can’t tell them apart by appearance myself. I’m not sure they can distinguish one another. Their personalities vary, though. Nampach is the brightest of them; it will make sure your men are safe.” He lowered the scepter he still held, and asked, “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

  “That would be fine,” Croy replied, glancing around for somewhere to sit.

  As he turned his head, he heard the wizard say, “Here, take this,” and from the corner of his eye he glimpsed the wizard handing the scepter to the servant behind him.

  Then a loud metallic ringing startled him, and his head snapped back.

  The servant had dropped the scepter, and it had bounced on the stone floor; as Croy watched it rolled under a nearby cabinet.

  “Idiot!” Rasec bellowed. “Clumsy fool!”

  The servant dove toward the cabinet, and in an instant knelt before it, groping for the scepter.

  “Leave it for now,” the wizard snapped. “Fetch two chairs from my study, and then get it out.”

  “Yes, sir,” the servant muttered. It got to its feet, essayed an awkward bow, then tried to back out of the room, but bumped into a framework of wires and brass rods that jangled and wobbled.

  “Watch where…oh, just get the chairs.”

  “Yes, master,” the servant said, bowing quickly before turning to hurry out.

  “As you can see,” the wizard said, “they aren’t perfect. Every so often one of them seems to lose its wits temporarily, and begin bumping into things, or dropping them. It’s very aggravating; there must be a flaw in the design, but I have no idea where it lies.”

  The young duke nodded as he watched the homunculus vanish, then looked back at Rasec, and found the wizard staring at him expectantly.

  “Ah,” Croy said, gathering his wits. “Yes. Regarding any arrangements you might have had with my late father, uh…” He could think of no graceful w
ay to complete the question, and after a moment’s hesitation asked simply, “Were there any?”

  Rasec smiled. “Our arrangement was quite simple, as I believe I started to say once before—he left me alone, and I left him alone. In exchange for being permitted to remain here untroubled and untaxed, I agreed to provide magical services when necessary, with the very clear understanding that such necessities could not be frequent.”

  “I see,” Croy said. “It sounds straightforward, and I hope we can continue in the same fashion.”

  “Of course, your Grace.”

  A movement caught Croy’s eye, and he glanced over the wizard’s shoulder to see the servant returning, hauling two chairs, one under each arm.

  Rasec noticed Croy’s gaze, and turned in time to see the servant drop one of the chairs. It clattered on the stone floor, and the servant looked up, stricken.

  “Imbecile!” the wizard raged, raising a fist—a fist, Croy saw with astonishment, that was glowing.

  The servant cringed, then quickly set the undropped chair upright, positioned for the wizard’s use, and hurried to retrieve the other.

  The glow faded from Rasec’s upraised hand.

  “My apologies, your Grace,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with them tonight.” He looked down at the chair, then sighed. “And the stupid thing has given me the wrong chair; this is by far the better of the two, and therefore yours.” He pushed the chair across, and Croy accepted it.

  “Thank you,” he said, as he seated himself.

  Then the servant had placed the other chair, and the wizard settled into it. He rubbed at one of the carved wooden arm.

  “It’s ruined the finish here, do you see?”

  Croy nodded, and cast a look at the servant who had brought the chairs, who was once again on its knees, groping under the cabinet where the scepter had rolled.

  “You have heard of the plague, Sir Wizard. Do you have any idea, then, what might have caused it?”

  “Foul air, I would guess,” Rasec said. He turned at the sound of the servant’s approach.