The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Life aboard ship might be dull, but it was safe.

  Kwan was still double-checking the highwater mark and making certain that nothing could possibly wash the dory back out to sea even if the man posted to guard it ran off or fell asleep when one of the men shrieked.

  “It’s started already?” Kwan muttered. He turned.

  His men were scattered across the beach and along the line of trees. The shriek had come from Lin, who was now standing beside a palm and waving desperately.

  Kwan sighed and trotted up the slope, waving for the others to join him. To his surprise, most of them actually obeyed.

  A moment later all but three of the party stood clustered about Lin. Wen had, as ordered, stayed with the dory, while two others had drifted off somewhere.

  “What is it?” Kwan demanded.

  Lin pointed back into undergrowth beyond the palms—into the jungle, Kwan told himself resignedly. The tangle of greenery qualified as jungle.

  “A demon!” Lin said.

  “Oh, pfui,” Kwan said. “There are no demons in the waking world!” That was what the priests of his faith taught, and depending on his mood he either believed it to be true, or hoped that it was.

  “It was tall, and thin, with white hair all over its face, and horrible pale skin,” Lin insisted.

  “It wasn’t just a man—a white, perhaps?” Kwan suggested soothingly.

  Lin paused, then admitted, “Well, I didn’t get a very good look at it.”

  Kwan nodded, and then shouted into the jungle, in his best trade pidgin, “Hey, we come be friends, you come talk, yes?”

  The face that popped out of a cluster of ferns startled even Kwan, who thought he was ready for anything. He saw how Lin could have mistaken it for a demon; an unkempt, untrimmed white beard bristled in every direction from a thin, lined face. Pale blue eyes peered from sunken sockets, and a broad bald spot glistened with sweat. Despite the constant tropical sunlight, the skin was pale and pasty.

  “Who are you?” this apparition demanded, in reasonably clear Language.

  “I’m Kwan, third lieutenant aboard Glory of Summer Dawn, and these are some of the crew. Is this your island?”

  The white man blinked.

  “You could say that, I suppose,” he said. “You…ah, you aren’t from Batrachia?”

  “I never heard of Batrachia,” Kwan said, truthfully.

  “Or King Alfred?”

  “Nor King Alfred.” This was a slight exaggeration, as Kwan had once heard of a legendary ruler by that name in one of the white countries, but that King Alfred had been dead for a thousand years or so, and whichever country it was that claimed this ancient monarch—Kwan could never keep all those little countries straight—it certainly wasn’t Batrachia.

  “What are you doing here, then?” the stranger demanded.

  “Well,” Kwan said, “We were passing by, and saw the island, and noticed that it wasn’t on our maps, so we came ashore to see what was here.”

  “All right,” the white man replied, “You’ve seen what’s here—I am. Now what?” His eyes were wary, and reminded Kwan of a tiger he had once seen in the menagerie at the emperor’s summer palace.

  “I don’t know,” Kwan admitted. “Is there anyone else here?”

  The answer came immediately.

  “No.”

  “Ah…do you want to be here?” Kwan asked. “I mean, were you shipwrecked?”

  “No, I got myself here on purpose; I don’t need any rescuing, thanks.”

  Kwan considered this, unsure whether it indicated derangement—he wondered just how long the poor creature had been living alone on this island. He ventured, “Perhaps you might want to come speak to our captain, though?”

  The bearded ancient blinked again, and said, “Why, that’s very generous of you. I think I’d enjoy that. I haven’t had anyone to talk to in a very long time now.”

  “Well, then,” Kwan said, “Come back to the ship with us.”

  The white man squinted at him. “You’re sure this isn’t a Batrachian trick?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure,” Kwan said quickly. This white man, Kwan decided, was not entirely sane.

  “All right, then. Lead the way.” The stranger stepped out of the bushes, and Kwan was horrified at the ragged condition of his garments. He wore only tattered remnants of something that might once have been an elegant robe.

  What, Kwan thought, would Captain Kai make of all this?

  He found out several minutes later, back aboard the ship.

  “A castaway!” the captain exclaimed, “How marvelous!”

  “I’m no castaway,” the stranger protested. “I was there on purpose. My boat’s around the other side of the island—if it hasn’t rotted away.”

  “Ah,” Kai said. “Then why were you there?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  The captain nodded. “As you wish. You will join us, though, for tonight’s dinner? Surely, you will grant us this favor! We can exchange tales, as is the custom among our people.”

  “Well, I…it…” The stranger hesitated, but then his reserve collapsed. He bowed, and said, “Of course. You do me honor, good sir!”

  Kai bowed in return, and Lieutenant Kwan stood by, admiring his captain. An exchange of tales was hardly mandated by custom in a situation like this, but it would almost certainly reveal many useful things without any sort of unpleasant interrogation, even if the stranger did not intend to tell his own story. A culture’s tales tell much about its people, what they value, and what they believe.

  The captain then turned his guest over to Kwan once again, to be cleaned up and made presentable in time for the evening meal.

  Kwan did his best.

  When the sun was half-sunken, and its last rays painted the water the colors of blood and gold, the ship’s officers gathered around the white-draped table in the great stern cabin. The stranger’s beard had been brushed out and the edges trimmed, but its length had been left intact, in honor of its owner’s plentiful years; his rags had been replaced with one of Lieutenant Ma’s brocade tea robes, as none of Kwan’s was long enough.

  The ship’s officers were also wearing finery—not necessarily their best, but formal garb, all the same. Taking their cue from their captain, they seated themselves in near-silence, and made only polite small talk while they ate the meal of shellfish and vegetables that the ship’s cook had prepared.

  When the last dish had been cleared away, Captain Kai cleared his throat, and began speaking, in a pleasant sing-song, reciting the Tale of the Three Great Fishes.

  When he had finished, he nodded to First Lieutenant Shi-Lu, who proceeded to tell the story of his notorious Uncle Shi, who had almost been beheaded for introducing rice wine to the island of Hsin Kuo, but had saved himself by besting the emperor in a game of Caravanserai.

  And so it proceeded around the table, as the officers told stories they had heard as children, or recited the classics of the empire’s literature, or recounted incidents that had befallen them or members of their families.

  At last it was the stranger’s turn. He coughed, glanced around, and began, and told this tale.

  Long ago, in Batrachia, there lived a wizard. He was not really very much of a wizard, as it happens. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he studied, he could only work one piece of real magic. He was very good at sleight-of-hand, and at all manner of stunts that look like magic, but that’s not quite the same thing, and he knew it. Real magic means miracle-working, not putting a pigeon up your sleeve, and this wizard only knew one sort of genuine magic. He’d learned it as an apprentice. When spells for turning lead into silver regularly failed, when his love-charms just gave people belly-aches, when a simple geas made a smelly mess all over his carpet without even making the intended victim feel guilty about it, this
one feat came easily to him. He could do it instantly, just with a wave of his hand.

  It wasn’t a simple, ordinary spell, either, like candle-lighting or card-flipping—he couldn’t light a candle for all the gold in a dragon’s hoard, but somehow he had mastered, without meaning to, a truly spectacular piece of magic. Perhaps some perverse minor deity had been having a joke with him in allowing him the easy use of this major transformation.

  He could turn people into frogs.

  A simple gesture, and anyone he chose would shrink down, turn green and slimy, and hop away, eager to eat bugs, as much a frog as ever grew out of a tadpole. He could do any number of people at a time, too, for that matter—turn whole nations into frogs, if he chose to.

  He didn’t choose to, however, and with very good reason. Unfortunately, he couldn’t turn the frogs back into people again, and after one or two unpleasant incidents before he realized the situation, he swore never to use the spell again. He was too soft-hearted, in the ordinary course of events, to leave even his worst enemy stuck as a frog.

  He practiced the gesture in secrecy, just in case he ever needed it, but he never used it.

  He still wanted everyone to know he was a wizard, though. There were a good many wizards in Batrachia at the time, and they were something of an elite, highly respected by the rest of the population, and deferred to in several ways. A wizard could always count on a fair price at the village market, and no smith would ever miss the promised delivery date on a wizard’s order. After all, angering a wizard is dangerous. He might turn you into a frog. Everyone knew that, even though in truth, most wizards didn’t know that particular spell.

  That this one wizard did know it, and had mastered it so completely, without ever learning any more useful or benign magic, was a source of constant private irritation, but he had no choice but to live with it.

  And since he had mastered this spell, and really could, if he chose, turn people into frogs, he played the role of a wizard to the hilt. He wore a fancy hat, carried a wizard’s staff, and lived in a well-furnished cave. He studied old books—partly in hopes of learning more magic, but mostly to keep up his image. He kept strange pets, such as lizards and giant spiders—nothing supernatural, though, since he had no way of manufacturing, summoning, or controlling such creatures. He equipped himself with a full wizard’s laboratory, crammed with all the usual arcane paraphernalia—skulls, stuffed bats, mysterious powders, all of that—even though he couldn’t use a single bit of it.

  In short, he did everything a powerful wizard did, except to perform magic.

  Reasonably enough, everyone in the vicinity assumed he was a great and powerful wizard.

  This was all very well, and in fact it was exactly what the wizard wanted. He led a quiet, comfortable life, and had the respect and affection of his neighbors. Really, he was quite content with the situation.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t last, because late one summer Batrachia was invaded.

  The first the frog wizard knew of this was when a messenger knocked on the door of his cave one morning, carrying a summons from King Alfred.

  The wizard answered the door, expecting to see one of his neighbors come looking for a bit of advice, or maybe some villager asking after a philtre of some sort, and instead found himself face to face with a royal herald in full regalia.

  The wizard blinked, and the herald unrolled a scroll and began reading. The wizard stood there, feeling rather foolish, and listened.

  The herald read, “Whereas, Our Realm has been attacked, without provocation, by certain Enemies, and

  “Whereas, Our normal methods of defense do not appear to provide a complete assurance of Victory against this foul invader, and

  “Whereas, supernatural methods needs must be employed against this Desecration of Our Borders, and

  “Whereas, Our enlightened rule has provided all alike, commoner and noble, mortal and magician, with great benefits and fair treatment

  “Therefore, We call upon all those with any skills in arcane practices, be they in wizardry, sorcery, or other practices, to recognize their obligation to the Crown, and

  “Therefore, all practitioners of Magic are hereby summoned forthwith to the Castle Royal, by Command of His Majesty Alfredus Rex.

  “Signed, and with Our Seal, this fourteenth day of the Ninth Month, in the fifth year of our Reign.”

  The wizard was very impressed by all this, which sounded quite majestic, and when the herald had finished reading the wizard asked him just exactly what it all meant.

  “It means that you’re to come with me to the castle, immediately,” the herald explained.

  The wizard considered that for a moment, and then asked, “Why?”

  “You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” the herald asked.

  The wizard agreed emphatically that yes, he was indeed a wizard.

  “Well,” the herald explained, “All wizards are being summoned to the castle to help fight off the invader.”

  The wizard was not at all sure he liked the sound of that, and he said so.

  The herald insisted, and made some rather nasty threats about what the king might do to uncooperative magicians. The wizard gave in on the major points, but he also insisted a little, and was allowed time to pack a bag.

  While he was packing, and on the long walk to the castle, he asked the herald more questions, and got more of an explanation of just what was going on.

  It seems that the exact reason for the invasion was not entirely clear to the Batrachians, but it appeared to have something to do with an insult the Batrachian king, Alfred the First, had unintentionally directed at the Grand Duke of Darchmont. Although the insult was completely inadvertant, the Grand Duke had chosen to take umbrage—he had probably been looking for an excuse. He had led an army of some four thousand men into Batrachia, marching through the peaceful countryside, burning villages and trampling farms, and in general making life very unpleasant for the citizenry.

  The year had already been a bad one for the Batrachians, as the wizard well knew. Some quirk of the weather had cursed the kingdom with a veritable plague of gnats and mosquitoes, the crops had been poor, several wells had gone dry at midsummer, and then a few weeks later heavy rains had caused flooding along the rivers.

  After all this, most people were not really surprised by the attack. As everyone knows, bad luck often comes in streaks. Some people had wondered if they had offended some god or other, but most just put it down to chance.

  Naturally, King Alfred was quite upset by the invasion. The kingdom had been at peace for years, and the small standing army was out of shape, out of practice—and out building levees against the floods.

  Even in the best of times, the Batrachian army was probably no match for the Grand Duke’s force, and as it stood, defeat had appeared certain. From King Alfred’s point of view that was completely unacceptable; the Grand Duke had announced that his honor had been impugned by the King, and that only a direct personal duel to the death between the two monarchs would satisfy him. As the Duke was young, fit, and famous for his skill with a broadsword, while King Alfred was aging, fat, lazy, and inept, this was the same as stating that he intended to kill the king.

  King Alfred had therefore decided to find some way to drive the Grand Duke back across the border without an army. Obviously, that would take magic.

  Accordingly, King Alfred had sent messengers out, and posted proclamations, and did everything he could to locate and gather every wizard in Batrachia. When they had been located, he summoned one and all, however powerful or puny, to his castle.

  And that, of course, included this frog wizard.

  The wizard really did not want to be involved in a war, but he did not see any graceful way to back out, so he went along with the herald without any serious argument.

  Soon enough they reached the royal castle, where the wizard was intro
duced around, checked off a long list of magicians who were expected, and then generally made welcome.

  He promptly found a quiet corner and did his best to stay there, out of the way, while the messengers and heralds brought in wizard after wizard. The frog wizard recognized several of them, while others were total strangers—and they kept on coming, and coming, and coming.

  Really, he had had no idea that there were so many wizards in Batrachia! They kept on arriving for the next two days.

  The frog wizard generally stayed in his corner, trying hard to be inconspicuous, and succeeding, for the most part. He slept on a mat in a wizardly barracks that had been improvised in a gallery, and he ate the bread and cheese and ale that the castle servants distributed three times a day, but other than that he simply sat quietly and watched and waited.

  On the third day the wizards stopped coming. Instead, the invaders appeared and surrounded the castle.

  By this time, though, the castle was full of wizards, dozens of wizards, wizards of every description, marching about and boasting of their prowess.

  The Grand Duke’s army arrived about midday and found the drawbridge up and the battlements manned—they had no way of knowing that the defenders were the castle servants, rather than soldiers. They spread out and settled in for a proper siege, setting up tents and pavilions, bringing up a battering ram, and so forth.

  Meanwhile, inside the castle, the wizards were milling about, unsure just what was expected of them.

  Around sunset, King Alfred appeared, in his best royal robes and wearing his crown, and announced to the gathered magicians that they were to use whatever magic they had at their disposal to destroy the besieging forces.

  “When?” someone called.

  “Right now,” the king replied. He waved a dismissal, and retreated to his apartments.

  The wizards looked at each other, shrugged, and began making magic.

  The noted sorcerer Rudhira the Red brewed up lightning in a kitchen cauldron, balls of crackling blue-white lightning that hissed and spattered sparks across the floor.