The elder psychologist was looking pleased with himself. “A trifle harrowing that session, but gratifyingly informative,” he said as they went towards their rooms. “I really feel I’ve learned something about quantitative control. In fact, I’m confident that in a few months’ research I can learn enough not only to transform Florimel and to rejuvenate myself, but also to . . . uh . . . revolutionize the entire practice of magic in Faerie, to make its benefits available to all.”
“Yes, but” — Shea looked worried — “did you find out what they intend to do about Belphebe?”
“I gather that that is a matter for the . . . uh . . . executive session of tomorrow. But as I understand the outlines of the plan, it is not to direct the enchantments against her in person. She’s protected against them. They intend rather to place spells on the two or three places where she sleeps, with the design of causing her to fall into so deep a slumber that she can be captured.”
They paused on Chalmers’ threshold. He added: “However, I wouldn’t worry about the young woman’s . . . uh . . . safety, Harold. As I understand it she is to be brought here, and I am sure that as a member of the Chapter I can persuade them not to harm her. In fact —”
“For the love of Mike, Doc, are you throwing in with these guys, or just plain daffy? Didn’t you hear Duessa talking about pulling Belphebe’s toenails out, come the Revolution, and Dolon mentioning the torture chamber? Wake up! You’re being an old fool!”
“Harold, I must request you not to use such intemperate language. After all, I’m somewhat your senior, and I require the uninterrupted use of all facilities as well as your own cordial cooperation to put this matter on a scientific basis. In a few months I shall be in a position to effect an industrial revolution in magic —”
“Theory! Months! I might have known that’s what you’d be after! Can’t you realize somebody’s in danger?”
“I shall certainly give my most earnest attention to persuading the other members of the Chapter that this young woman to whom you are so attached is innocuous, and —”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Forget it! Good night.” Shea stalked out, more angry with Chalmers than he had ever been before. He did not hear the velvety click of the Judas window in Chalmers’ room. Nor could he overhear the two men in the secret passage that led to that window.
Busyrane’s voice was bland. “We were good enough to warn you that the young man was a suspicious character and mingled somehow in the affairs of the court.”
“Can it be that my judgment, usually so keen, was altogether thrown off?” asked Dolon.
“Oh, you were right about the older. He’s a proper magician and devoted to the Chapter. But the younger — he’ll bear more than watching. A friend of Belphebe, forsooth.”
Chapter Nine
SHEA LAY IN bed, staring at the black ceiling. No use trying to get the Doc to do anything. His heart was in the right place. But between his devotion to Florimel and his devotion to theory he could not be convinced that these enchanters, who talked so glibly of intellectual achievements, were bloody-minded racketeers who intended to put Belphebe, Britomart, and a lot of others to a slow and intricate death.
Shea shuddered as he thought of it. Whatever was done to save them, he would have to do, quickly. Yes, and to keep Chalmers from turning the products of his really fine scientific mind over to these rascals.
The castle was silent. He slipped out of bed, dressed, and buckled the faithful épée over his shoulder. It would not be much use against enchantments. But as long as the enchanters themselves believed it had magical power, it would help.
The door swung open noiselessly. There was no light in the corridor. The stone floor was cold under Shea’s feet. His soft leather boots made soundless progress. If he kept one hand along the wall, he thought he could find the way to the great hall, and so out. Step — step — the hand that had been following the wall touched nothingness. An appalling odour of cockatrice assailed his nostrils. Evidently the door of somebody’s laboratory. He went down to hands and knees and slithered past an inch at a time, hoping the creature would not wake up.
So. Here was the head of the stair. He took one step down, two — and felt something soft touch his ankles. Another step and the something soft was clear to his waist, catching at him. it felt ropy and vaguely slimy, a whole tangle of slime — cobwebs! For a moment Harold Shea felt unreasoning panic, as it seemed that going ahead and turning back would be equally fatal. Then he realized that this would be some of Busyrane’s magic, part of the ordinary castle safeguards, and of no special significance.
Yet what would cut through or destroy cobwebs? Fire. He had no fire. But in his previous adventure in Scandinavian myth, Surt’s giants had made use of flaming swords, and he had the épée. With an incantation to make use of the law of similarity, it might become a flaming sword. On that narrow, stone-walled spiral staircase it was altogether unlikely that anyone would be able to see the light.
With the ghostly fingers of the cobwebs clutching at his legs, Shea stood on the stair and thought as he never had before of a spell:
Sword, sword, sword that is now my salvation,
Make me a light to cut through these cobwebs;
Be like Surt’s sword to cut through this maze.
He could feel the hilt growing warm.
Help my escape to reach consummation;
In the name of Durandal, help me to be free.
It was not outrageously good poetry, but the hilt was so hot that he snatched it out. A smoky red flame ran down the blade and dropped from the point, revealing the whole stairwell from wall to wall and as high as Shea stood, filled with a solid mass of the hideous grey material. A man could smother in it easier than not. Busyrane left nothing to chance.
Shea slashed at the stuff with the flaming épée. It shrivelled left and right before him, back against the wall with hissing, foul-smelling flames running along the strands. He advanced slowly, cutting one step at a time. As he reached the bottom and the last cobwebs, the fire in the blade went out. He was in the great hall; but a few steps carried him through it, across the forecourt and to the gate.
A moon looked down out of a cloudless sky. Shea cursed it softly to himself, wondering whether he ought to take a chance on crossing the open stretch between gate and the shelter of the trees before it set. He decided to try it.
Bending low, he scuttled rapidly across the space, his cloak flapping like a vampire’s wings. He made it without stumbling and looked back. The castle had disappeared. There was nothing visible but stony ground with the hut in the middle.
Once among the trees, he began pacing the circuit of the clearing, whistling very softly to himself the unicorn tune and pausing to listen. A quarter of the way round he was halted by a tense whisper, “Stand, sir!”
“Belphebe!”
“Aye.” She stepped from her place of concealment, arrow drawn to the head. “In good sooth you look like Harold de Shea. But show me how you hold that narrow sword.”
Shea drew the still-warm épée and demonstrated.
“Certes, then you are indeed he. I feared lest the enchanters had sent a phantom forth to beguile me. Right glad I am to see you, Square Harold.”
Shea said: “Say, I’m glad to see you, too. I knew I could depend —”
“Save your fair speeches for another hour. Here is danger. What is toward?”
Shea explained. Belphebe said: “For myself I fear not, though I thank you for the warning. Yet it’s somewhat otherwise with Britomart, who has not the protection of the woods so close as I. And sure it were shame to miss the chance of catching the entire Chapter at once. Let me think. I left Artegall at a woodcutter’s cot on the far flank of Loselwood. His man Talus had gone to fetch Cambina, that she might heal his bruises and calm his mind.”
“So Cambina’s a psychologist too! Why does he need his mind calmed?”
“Why, sir, he’s the chief justiciar of all Faerie. Without a calm mind, how shall he hol
d the balance even? Let us go thither and lay this matter before him. Certes, we two cannot lay so many rogues by the heels alone.”
Two hours of walking brought Shea to the yawning stage. The moon had set. Under the black trees, even the surefooted Belphebe found the going hard. She was ready to listen to suggestions for a nap.
“Sleep is still far from me now,” she said. “If you wish, I will keep watch for the first hour — which should be till the stars of the Bear sink to the top of that tree.” She pointed. Shea, too drowsy to notice, composed himself to rest.
The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake in a brightening world.
“Hey, young lady,” he said through his first yawn, “I thought you were going to wake me up after the first hour?”
“And so thought I. But you were so in comfort that I wanted the heart to rouse you. I need but little sleep.”
“Naughty. What about my masculine pride?”
She made a face at him. “I forgot that. Men are such foolish carls about it. But come.” She danced a step or two. “Tirra-lirra, a brave day! Let’s forth and seek our breakfast.”
As they walked along, Belphebe peering towards thickets for an edible target, and Shea a bit woozy from lack of sleep, he asked: “D’you suppose Cambina will have calmed Artegall down so he’ll listen to my explanations before he starts carving?”
“A thing to think on! Will you hide whilst I speak him fair?”
“Guess I’ll take a chance on his temper.” Shea wasn’t going to have his dream-girl suspect him of timidity at this stage. He was sure he could outrun the bulky justiciar if necessary.
“Marry, I would not have you answer otherwise!” She smiled at him, and he felt rewarded. She went on, scrutinizing him: “Many knights, squires, and yeomen have I kenned, Master Harold, but never a wight like you. You speak fair, yet half the time with words I wot not of. You promised to explain the meanings of those wherewith you put the Blatant Beast to rout.”
Shea replied: “Curiosity killed a cat.”
“Miauw! Yet of this cat’s allotted nine, I have several left to draw upon.”
“I really can’t, Belphebe. Magical reasons.”
“Oh. Well then, tell me the meaning of the strange thing you called the Lady Cambina even now.”
“Psychologist?”
“Aye.”
Shea gave an account in words of one syllable of the science of psychology, and of his own experiences in its practice. Under the girl’s admiring curiosity he expanded. Before he knew it he was practically telling her the story of his life. As soon as he realized this, he cut his autobiography off short, not wanting to leave her with nothing to be curious about.
Belphebe said: “A strange tale, Squire. Gin you speak truth, this homeland of yours were worth the seeing.” She sighed a little. “The wilds of Faerie I know like my own palm. And since I will not tarry at Gloriana’s tedious court, there’s nothing left for me but to hunt the Losels and such vile — Sst!” She broke off, moved slowly a couple of steps, and loosed an arrow. It knocked over a rabbit.
While they dressed and cooked their breakfast, Shea thought. He finally ventured: “Look here, kid, someday Doc and I will be going back, I suppose. Why don’t you plan to come with us?”
Belphebe raised her eyebrows. “’Tis a thought audacious. But stay — could I live among the woods-paths as I do here?”
“Unh.” Shea imagined the horrible complications that would ensue if Belphebe tried to lead her present life in Ohio’s close-fenced farmland. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be practical. But there’s plenty else to do.”
“What then? How should I live in one of your great towns?”
That problem had not occurred to Shea. He revised his estimate of Belphebe. The girl might look like something out of a medieval romance, but she had a core of hard common sense. The only job he could think of for her was giving bow-and-arrow lessons, and he hardly supposed the demand for professional archers to be large.
He said vaguely: “Oh, we’ll figure something out. Doc and I would see to it that you were — uh — uh . . .”
“Harold!” she said sharply, “What are you proposing? Think not that because I lead a free roving life, I —”
“No, no, I didn’t mean — uh . . .”
“What then?”
He thought again. One obvious solution was staring him in the face; yet to bring it up so early might spoil everything. Still, nothing ventured
He drew a deep breath and plunged: “You could marry me.”
Belphebe’s mouth fell open. It was some seconds before she answered: “You jest, good Squire!”
“Not at all. People do it in my country, you know, just like here.”
“But — knew you not that lam affianced to Squire Timias?”
It was Shea’s turn to stare blankly
Belphebe said: “Nay, good friend, take it not so to heart. I had thought it known to the world, else I should have told you. The fault was mine.”
“No I mean . . . it wasn’t let’s skip it.”
“Skip it?” said Belphebe wonderingly. Shea bent over his rabbit-haunch, muttering something about the meat’s being good.
Belphebe said: “Be not angry, Harold. Not willingly would I hurt you, for I like you well. And had I know you sooner . . . But my word is given.”
“I suppose so,” said Shea sombrely. “What sort of man is your friend Timias?” He wondered whether the question had a useful purpose, or whether he was showing a slight touch of masochism in keeping the painful subject alive.
Belphebe’s face softened. “A most sweet boy; shrinking and sensitive, not like these brawling knightly ruffians.”
“What are his positive qualities?” asked Shea.
“Why — ah — he can sing a madrigal better than most.”
“Is that all?” said Shea with a touch of sarcasm.
Belphebe bridled. “I know not what you mean. ’Tis even the core of the matter that he’s no bold confident venturer like yourself.”
“Doesn’t sound to me like much of a reason for marrying anybody. I came across a lot of cases like that in my psych work; usually the woman lived to regret it.”
Belphebe jumped up angrily. “So, Squire, you inquire of my privy affairs that you may sting me with your adder’s tongue? Fie on you! It regards not you whom I marry, or why.”
Shea grinned offensively. “I was just making general remarks. If you want to take them personally, that’s your lookout. I still say a woman is taking a lousy chance to marry a human rabbit in the hope of making a lion out of him.”
“A murrain on your general remarks!” cried Belphebe passionately. “An you would company me, I’ll thank you to keep your long tongue in its proper groove! Better rabbit than fox with pretence of marriage —”
“What do you mean, pretence?” barked Shea. “I meant that when I said it! Though now I see that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea —”
“Oh, you do? You change your mind quickly! I’ll warrant me you’d have done so in any case!”
Shea got himself under control, and said: “Let’s not go any farther with this, Belphebe. I’m sorry I made those cracks about your boy-friend. I won’t mention him again. Let’s be friends.”
Belphebe’s anger wilted. “And right sorry am I that I threw your proposal in your face, Squire Harold; ’twas a sad discourtesy.” Shea was surprised to see a trace of moisture in her eye. She blinked rapidly and smiled. “So, we are friends, and our breakfast done. Let us be on.”
The new sun was a patch of flecks of orange fire through the foliage. They found a sluggish little stream and had to squeeze through the thickets on its banks.
They reached a stretch of drier ground where the glades expanded to continuous meadow and the forest shrank to clumps of trees. They left one of these clumps and were swishing through the long grass, when a leathery rustle made them look up.
Overhead swooped a nightmarish reptile the size of an observation plane. It ha
d two legs and a pair of huge bat-wings. On its back rode Busyrane, all clad in armour, but his face, which was smiling benignly. “Well met, dear friends!” he called down. “What a pleasing thought! Both at once!”
Twunk! went Belphebe’s bow. The arrow soared through one wing membrane. The beast hissed a little and banked for a turn.
“Into the woods!” cried Belphebe and set the example. “The wivern cannot fly among the trees.”
“What did you call it? Looks like some kind of a long-trailed pterodactyl to me.” Shea craned his neck as the sinister shadow wove to and fro above the leaves.
Belphebe led the way to the opposite side of the grove. When Busyrane circled above the segment away from them, they dashed across the open space and into the next clump. A shrill hiss behind and above warned them that they had been spotted.
They worked their way through this grove. From under the trees they could see Busyrane silhouetted against the sky, while he couldn’t see them.
“Now!” said Belphebe, and ran like an antelope through the long grass. Shea pounded after. This was a longer run than the first, a hundred yards or more. Halfway across he heard the hiss of cloven air behind and drove himself for all his strained lungs were worth. The shadow of the monster unblurred in front of him. It was too far, too far — and then he was under the friendly trees. He caught a glimpse of the reptile, horribly close, pulling up in a stall to avoid the branches.
Shea leaned against a trunk, puffing. “How much more of this is there?”
Belphebe’s face had a frown. “Woe’s me; I fear this forest thins ere it thickens. But let’s see.”
They worked round the edges of the grove, but it was small, and the distance to all others, but the one they had come from, prohibitively great.
“Looks like we have to go back,” said Shea.
“Aye. I like not that. Assuredly he will not have pursued us alone.”
“True for you. I think I see something there.” He pointed to a group of distant figures, pink in the rising sun.
The Incompleat Enchanter Page 24
