The Complete Compleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague deCamp

  Chalmers stammered: “We . . . uh . . . that is . . . can you tell me a little more about this Florimel? The . . . uh . . . false one.”

  Dolon waved his hand. “A mere witch’s thing—a creature made of snow, of no special value. You must let me show you the really fine chess player I made sometime, or the imps I conjured up to handle my torture work. Really an achievement. Busyrane, our archmagician, doubtless called his false Florimel in for inspection.” He accented the last word and snickered. “But you haven’t answered my question, magical sirs.”

  Shea spoke up boldly. “The point is, we’d like to join up with you.”

  “You mean you have been working independently and we know it not?” Dolon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Aye; Busyrane opened the Chapter but a twelvemonth ago and you may well have slipped his attention. I trust you have not refused his invitation. Our archimage is not soft or slow with unlicensed magicians. He has a spell that turns ’em into spiders. Witty, is he not, eh?”

  “Good gracious!” said Chalmers. “But how does one acquire a license?”

  “That fells somewhat on the applicant. Our charter calls for a round twenty-one master magicians, the magic number. Naturally, you behold me in one of the leading masters, whether by ability or seniority. There is also a class of journeymen, who handle the ordinary work, and one of apprentices. Perhaps you have talent enough to be elected to mastership. There are three or four places unfilled, I believe. The next meeting comes in five days, and with my backing your election would be certain.”

  Six

  Dolon, in the form of a handsome stallion, trotted in front. Shea leaned back in his saddle and, watching the stallion’s ears carefully, murmured: “Doing all right, aren’t we, Doc?”

  “I suppose so, but I admit to being somewhat apprehensive as to what will happen if both the Companions and the Chapter of Magicians learn we’ve been cooperating with the other party. This . . . ah . . . playing both ends against the middle may get us in trouble.”

  “Maybe,” said Shea. They rode on in silence.

  Once a tiger glided out from between the trunks ahead. Gustavus and Adolphus, both rapidly approaching nervous breakdowns, tried to bolt from the trail. Dolon turned himself from a stallion into an immense buffalo. The tiger slunk off, snarling.

  The sun was already low when the trail made a right-angled bend and dipped under a bank. A huge oak door was set into the earth. Dolon, again in his natural form, waved a hand, and the door flew open.

  “Fear not for the safety of your mounts,” he said. “An invisible wall, which none may penetrate without my let, surrounds this place.”

  Shea, dismounting, said: “That ought to be nice for keeping the mosquitoes out.”

  Dolon laughed dutifully, then shook his head. “Ah, good ’prentice, how true! Is it not sad that a man of genius must concern himself with petty moils and worries?”

  The air was stuffy inside. The first thing Shea saw was a huge pile of dirty dishes. Dolon was evidently not the neat type of bachelor. Beyond was an object that made his scalp prickle. It was the life-sized nude statue of a young man, stiff, at one side of the room, emitting a faint bluish glow. It held aloft a torch, which Dolon set alight.

  The enchanter noticed Shea’s glance of inquiry. “A former ’prentice of mine,” he remarked. “I found he was a spy from Queen Gloriana’s court, where a few of these high-born grandees practice a kind of magic they call ‘white.’ So there he stands, with all his sensations alive and the rest of him dead. Eh, Roger?” He pinched the statue playfully and laughed. “I’m really the best humorist in the Chapter when I’m in the mood. Let me show you my collection of Mallamies.”

  “What’s a Mallamy?” inquired Chalmers.

  Dolon looked at him hard, then decided it was a kind of joke and laughed. He began taking bottles off a shelf and holding them up to the light. Each contained a human figure about an inch tall. “Homunculi from the hand of great mater, Mallamy himself,” he explained. “He specialized in this art, and none other has been able to shrink folk to so small a size. Even I, Dolon, cannot equal his art. This is the finest collection of his figures in existence. It wants only a blond Saracen. Busyrane has one, but he will not yield it, though I have offered him a water fay, which his own collection lacks. He insists that water fays are not permanent, since any accident will bring water in contact with the bottle and they can work a spell of their own and so escape.”

  He sighed. “You see how things fall short of perfection even for the greatest of us. But come in, good sirs, and seat yourselves in my cabinet. Only ’ware the cockatrice as you go down this passage.”

  “A cockatrice?” said Shea.

  “Aye. A rare, priceless idea of Busyrane’s. All masters of the Chapter are supplied with them. They are just outside our inner cabinets and under an enchantment, so they may not look on any member of the Chapter—or his friends. But should any of Gloriana’s people essay to enter, the cockatrice looks on them and they turn to stone.”

  Dolon threw open a door and led the way down a dimly lighted passage. Behind bars at one side the beast stalked to and fro with a clatter of its scaly tail. It turned its head this way and that. The stench made Shea want to vomit. Over his shoulder he saw Chalmers’ lips moving. He hoped it was with a protective counterspell, not prayer. Dolon’s voice floated back: “—had to get them after Cambina, one of those ‘white magic’ practitioners, got into Mallamy’s cabinet and drowned him in a pool of alkahest. Thank Lucifer, she married that oaf, Sir Cambell, and marriage cost her some of her powers—”

  The door banged behind them. Shea gasped for air as though he had swum up from the bottom of the ocean.

  The table was ready and the food—thank Heaven, thought Shea—not too highly spiced. Whittling at a steak, he asked: “What’s this meat? It’s good!”

  “Fried Losel,” said the magician calmly.

  Shea saw Chalmers halt a mouthful in midair. He felt himself gag momentarily; it was, after all, on the borderline of cannibalism, and after the cockatrice—He forced himself to go on eating. Squeamishness right now was a luxury.

  Dolon poured out some wine, sat back, and rather to the travelers’ astonishment produced and lit a clay pipe.

  “Aye,” he pronounced, “competition is the curse of our business. One playing against another, and those curst Companions of Gloriana making sad work of us all—that’s how matters stood till Busyrane organized our Chapter. Why, I mind me, I had a very good thing once, very good. Found a man of property who wanted a love philter. I made it for him, and he refused to pay. As he was more ass than human, I promised him his ears should grow an inch a day, with the price doubled for each inch they grew till he got me to take the spell off.” Dolon laughed and puffed. “I told you I was a good deal of a humorist.

  “Well, what does he do but go to Malingo, who gives him a counterspell at half-price! No more of that now.”

  Shea had a question: “Look here. If you magicians all cooperate so well, what went wrong at Satyrane’s tournament? That girdle wouldn’t stay on the false Florimel, or on Duessa either for that matter. I should’ve thought Busyrane would see to that.”

  Dolon chuckled. “Briskly questioned, springald! The trick with the girdle was doubtless Duessa’s doing. It’s in her style. She tried to remove the enchantment already on it, but when she found she couldn’t do that, clapped another atop, so ’twould fit nobody. But Florimel’s case was an error, I fear me much.” He shook his head. “Especially if in good sooth Busyrane has sent for her. Nothing would gall those high knights and ladies of the court half so much as having one of their queens of beauty, approved chaste by the test of the girdle, to live with an enchanter. But now, alack, there’s a doubt.”

  Shea saw Chalmers start and run his tongue around his lips at the mention of the connection between Busyrane and Florimel. He pressed questions about the Chapter to give Chalmers a chance to recover. But now Dolon shut up like a clam, with suspicious glances. Shea ha
d uneasy memories of the cockatrice and the spy in the outer room.

  The magician finally rose. “ ’Tis time we retired, eh, magical sirs? ’Twere wise to set out for Busyrane’s tomorrow. If we arrive ere the meeting be called, I’m sure that my connections and the skill in intrigue for which I’m known will enable me to secure your election.”

  ###

  A whisper: “Hey, Doc, you asleep?”

  Another: “Merciful Heavens, no. Not in this place. Is he?”

  “If he isn’t, that’s a damned good magical snore. Say, can’t we do something about that poor guy he made into a statue?”

  “It would be injudicious to attempt it, Harold. Moreover, I’m not certain I know how. It would jeopardize our whole plan of campaign.”

  “Didn’t know we had one. Are we stringing along with him?”

  “I suppose we must if we really intend to help Queen Gloriana and the Companions. I may also mention Florimel. Dolon remarked that she was made of snow—created. I find it difficult to credit and rather awful. I fear we must join this Chapter and . . . uh . . . bore from within, as it were.”

  “I suppose,” said Shea thoughtfully, “that the Chapter explains why the Land of Faerie is sort of running down.”

  “Yes. The enchanters had just discovered the—”

  “Say, Doc!” Shea’s whisper was almost loud. “If the Chapter was formed a year ago, Faerie Queene time, and it had already been started when Spenser wrote, which was four centuries ago, Earth time—Faerie time must be much slower than ours. If we go back, we’ll land somewhere in the twenty-fifth century—along with Buck Rogers.”

  “If we go back. And also if the curvature of the space-time vectors is uniform. There might be sine curves in the vectors, you know.”

  “Never thought of it. Say, how come your dragon spell was so excessively successful?”

  Chalmers permitted himself an under-the-breath chuckle. “A property of the mathematics of magic. Since it’s based on the calculus of classes, it is primarily qualitative, not quantitative. Hence the quantitative effects are indeterminate. You can’t—at least, with my present skill I can’t—locate the decimal point. Here the decimal point was too far rightward, and I got a hundred dragons instead of one. It might have been a thousand.”

  Shea lay still a moment digesting that thought. Then: “Can’t you do something about that?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently the professionals learn by experience just how much force to put into their incantations. It’s an art rather than a science. If I could solve the quantitative problem, I could put magic on a scientific basis. I wish, Harold, that tomorrow you could . . . uh . . . manage to distract Dolon for long enough to allow me to possess myself of one of his textbooks. His place is such a hurrah’s nest that he’s certain not to miss it.”

  ###

  The three riders—Dolon had conjured up a horse because, he said, taking the form of one for a long journey would be fatiguing—had been going for miles through Loselwood. They saw deer, but no other living creatures. Conversation was scarce till they came out on a road, once wide and well-graded, now much overgrown. Shea reasoned that this was one more sign of how the enchanters were getting the best of the Faerie knights.

  He pushed his mount alongside the magician. “With your superlative powers, Dolon, I wonder they didn’t elect you head of the Chapter instead of Busyrane.”

  Dolon shrugged. “I could have had the post at good cheap, ho-ho! But I would not strive and moil for it. I’m really a very good judge of human nature, so I arranged Busyrane’s election, knowing he would do it well.”

  “You must be just about perfect,” said Shea.

  “ ‘Just about,’ my ’prentice friend, is a weak phrase. I am perfect. I’ve no doubt that people in ages to come will date the history of true wizardry from my entry into the field.”

  “Modest too,” remarked Shea, drawing a quick glare from Chalmers.

  Dolon dropped his eyes. “Too modest, I sometimes think. Yet do I guard against such affectation—hola! Here’s an encounter!” An armored horseman had appeared at the forend of the defile through which they were riding. His lance came down and he trotted toward them.

  Dolon cried: “Ten thousand devils, ’tis Artegall himself! Flee, or we are undone!” Looking a bit undone himself, the magician whirled his horse sharp round on its hind legs.

  A woman’s voice behind them called, “Stand, all of you!” Belphebe was perched on a rock at the side of the defile, covering them with bow bent full.

  “To the air!” screeched Dolon, the last word going beyond human pitch as he changed to hawk and flapped slanting upward. There was the flat snap of the bow, the whistle of the arrow, and there was a puff of feathers. Down hurtled the hawk, changing to Dolon with an arrow through his arm as he fell. He landed, plop, in a soft spot. Shea observed that these people really knew something about swearing in the minute or two before Artegall’s lance jabbed him.

  “Dismount, runagates!” roared the knight. It seemed the best thing to do. The man was as big as Cambell, cased in steel, yet moved quickly. Besides, Belphebe had another arrow already nocked.

  Artegall pushed up his visor to show a stern, swarthy face with a broken nose. He produced a couple of looped chains, which he slipped over the victims’ heads, tightened, and locked. “You’re in arrest,” quoth he.

  “What for?” asked Shea.

  “For judgment by the high justice of the court of her majesty, Queen Gloriana.”

  Chalmers groaned. “The high justice,” he explained in a low voice, “means the death penalty if we’re found guilty.”

  “Then I’ll take low,” said Shea.

  “You had better not ask it. He probably has the privilege of low justice himself, which means he can sentence you to about five years in prison right here. He probably would.”

  Belphebe had come down from her rock. “Dolon, by the splendor of Heaven!” she cried. “I bear witness, Sir Artegall, that when I met this pair in Loselwood but yesterday, they were asking after magicians. Guard the young one well; he bears a blade of much power, which I doubt not has some enchantment on it.”

  “Say you so!” observed Artegall, with an unpleasant expression. “By my halidom, we are well met, then. A pretty gift for the queen’s justice! Let’s see that little sword.” He yanked Shea’s baldric up over his head, nearly taking off an ear.

  He climbed back on his horse, holding the end of the chains. The prisoners had no choice but to trot along behind him.

  Chalmers managed to whisper: “Don’t try to tell them we’re on the right side. Britomart will clear us if necessary. We must . . . uh . . . retain Dolon’s confidence.”

  They plodded on. The more Chalmers thought about it the less he liked the idea of being dragged off to the Faerie court for judgment. If they were released with Britomart’s help, any enchanters they met afterward might reasonably ask them how they came to escape when Dolon was condemned. Of the master magician’s condemnation there could be little doubt. Artegall looked at him with pure detestation. Belphebe, trotting along beside them, was amusing herself by catching the enchanter’s eye, putting one hand around her neck, and making strangling sounds. The great Dolon did not seem to be enjoying it.

  Shea? Shea was admiring Belphebe’s springy stride. Anything Chalmers did would have to be on his own. Fortunately, Chalmers had succeeded in purloining and sneaking a look into one of Dolon’s textbooks that morning. There was a simple weakness spell in it; not much of a spell, lasting only a few hours and easily guarded against if one knew it was coming. But it required no apparatus beyond twelve blades of grass, a small piece of paper, and some water.

  Chalmers stooped and pulled up the grass blades as he stumbled along, holding them in his mouth as though he merely wanted something to chew on. He slipped a hand inside his robe, ostensibly to scratch, really to tear a page corner from Dolon’s book. This also went into his mouth; saliva ought to be a fairish substitute for water. He mumbled t
he incantation. If it worked, Artegall and Belphebe ought to be weakened enough to let the prisoners escape.

  Shea decided that he liked the little spray of freckles across Belphebe’s nose, but that it was difficult to admire a girl who had a bead drawn on one’s right kidney with a longbow. He would like to see more of Belphebe. She had about everything, including an adventurous spirit not unlike his own.

  Why the devil was he so tired? He could barely drag one foot after the other. He should be hardened to strenuous living by now. Belphebe was drooping, too; the spring had left her walk. Even the horse’s head hung.

  Artegall swayed in his saddle. He made one monstrous effort to balance himself, overcompensated, and slowly fell into the road with the dignity of a toppling factory chimney. The crash halted the procession. The horse sat down jerkily and sprawled beside its rider, its tongue lolling out. Chalmers and Dolon followed suit, their chains jangling.

  Artegall heaved himself up on one elbow. “Sorcery!” he drawled languidly. “The rascals have tricked us! Skewer them, Belphebe!”

  The girl fumbled with her bow. Chalmers rolled over and reached hands and knees. “Come on, Harold! Rouse Dolon!” he said. He smothered a yawn and started to crawl. “Dear me, I wish I could learn to keep these spells within bounds!”

  Shea tried to leap over Dolon, lost his balance and fell across the magician. Dolon grunted as Shea’s knees dug into him, but he, also, made his hands and knees. The three prisoners set off down the road in that fashion.

  Shea looked back. Belphebe was still on her feet, trying to draw the bow, but lacking strength to pull it more than a few inches. She aimed up and let fly at random. The recoil knocked her over backward. The arrow soared in a whispering parabola and thwunked into the seat of Dolon’s pants with just enough force to stick. The magician yelped and increased his speed to almost a mile an hour.

  “Hurry,” said Shea. “They’re coming after us.” Belphebe was crawling along at a fair rate, regardless of the abrasion of her bare knees. Behind her, Artegall brought up the rear of the bizarre parade like some monstrous tailless lizard. In his armor he could barely move.