The Evil Wizard Smallbone

by Delia Sherman

  “That makes sense,” Mutt admitted.

  “Thank you,” Hell Cat said. “Second, we split up. Puppy-boy here and I sneak in one way and Foxkin sneaks in another.”

  “That’s it?” Mutt barked. “That’s your plan? Those are coyotes, Hell Cat. They have noses. They’ll smell us before we even get close.”

  “Not if we find some really smelly mud and roll in it,” Hell Cat said. “Besides, Dinah said coyotes mostly sleep during the day. Also wolves. So there.”

  After some discussion, Nick pulled the Ford into a gap in the trees and cast a glamour to disguise it as a lichen-covered boulder. Hell Cat saw through it right away, but Mutt didn’t, even when Nick explained the trick. Hell Cat said it was because cats were naturally more magic than dogs, and Mutt said if Hell Cat was so magic, she could go rescue Smallbone by herself. They were still arguing as they went off down the road.

  Spring had not yet come to Fidelou’s woods. The trees were silent, dark, and barren, the undergrowth dry and dead. The only sound Nick heard as he walked was his own feet crunching through last year’s dried leaves. Nick pulled out Smallbone’s pipe and let it swing. The stem wavered, then quivered to a standstill, pointing straight ahead. He moved on until finally he reached a tumbledown shack with dirty yellow paint flaking off its warped clapboards like sunburned skin. Behind it, two motorcycles were parked under a spidery drying rack hung with coyote pelts, their empty heads dangling between their empty paws. Beyond it, he saw another drying rack in another muddy yard, and on down a row of racks and pelts and garbage-studded mud.

  The smell of the pelts made his eyes sting.

  Keeping to the edge of the woods, Nick crept along behind the shacks until he came to a gray-shingled general store, where he stopped and got out the pipe. This time, the stem pointed toward the store. Nick scuttled across the muddy clearing and squatted behind a friendly barrel, then peered around the corner and saw Fidelou’s castle.

  It looked just like the sort of place an ancient French wolf wizard who liked motorcycles would live. Nobody was around except a burly Howling Coyote standing guard by the door.

  Nick drew back behind the barrel and considered his options. If that was where Smallbone was, then he had to get in, hopefully without getting caught. Castles in movies always had side doors. Maybe this one did, too.

  A hand grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up between his shoulder blades. A wiry arm clamped around his throat, and an unpleasantly familiar voice said, “Where’s Dad at?”

  Nick stiffened, his heart pounding. His body wanted to struggle and kick like he always did when Jerry jumped him, but his brain told him that the only thing struggling would get him was a dislocated shoulder. Fighting wouldn’t help him. He would have to use his wits.

  Fox by name, fox by nature, he thought grimly, and said, “I don’t know where he’s at, and I don’t care.”

  Jerry gave him a shake. “Liar. You wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t brung you.”

  “He run off,” Nick muttered.

  “Good.” Jerry jerked Nick to his feet, sending an agonizing pain through his shoulder. “Time to see the Boss.”

  As his cousin frog-marched him toward the castle, Nick concentrated on keeping his legs moving. He didn’t want to see the Boss. The very thought of being that close to the wolf wizard, of meeting those mad yellow eyes and listening to that hoarse, insinuating voice made his belly clench.

  That’s right, his inner voice said. Scared is good. Bullies like people to be scared of them. He’s less likely to hurt me if I’m scared. He’ll think I’m weak. And I’m not.

  This thought carried Nick past the trailers and to the door, where the burly guard hefted a long tire iron and growled, “Whaddya want, punk?”

  “Hey, Audrey,” Jerry said cheerfully. “I got a present for the Boss.”

  The guard leaned toward Nick and sniffed. “He smells funny.”

  “The Boss won’t care,” Jerry said. “Trust me.”

  “Your funeral,” Audrey said, and waved them through to a cramped and dusty courtyard with a door on the other side, pointy and ancient and banded with iron. In front of it stood another guard, who also thought Nick smelled funny. He opened the door, though.

  A powerful stink of decaying meat, rust, wet dog, mold, and rotten eggs hit Nick square in the nose as Jerry propelled him forward into Fidelou’s den.

  Between the stink and the ache in his shoulder, Nick didn’t have much attention left for his surroundings. They were big, he knew that much, and lit only by two sullen torches on the columns nearest the wide platform at the far end, where Fidelou lounged on a throne covered with fur.

  Jerry marched Nick to the foot of the platform and shoved him sprawling onto a red carpet that felt like it might have been stolen from a cheap motel. Nick was breathing in the scent of mildewy acrylic when a dark voice said, “The estimable Jerry, is it not? What is it that you bring me, Jerry?”

  “This loser”— here Jerry planted a kick in Nick’s ribs that made him grunt and curl up like a shrimp —“is my cousin Nick, the kid you sent Dad to rescue from Smallbone?”

  “Ah.” Fidelou’s voice was smooth as chocolate syrup. “And your excellent papa? Where is he?”

  Nick heard Jerry swallow nervously. “I dunno, Boss. Maybe Nick gave him the slip.”

  “Or killed him,” Fidelou said. “Dommage. He understood my Vincent as no other. Still, we have Smallbone’s apprentice. Well done, mon brave.”

  “Does that mean I get my pelt now?” Jerry asked eagerly.

  Fidelou laughed. “Why not? Hiram, a pelt, if you please.”

  From his position on the carpet, all Nick could see of Fidelou were his boots and the top of his throne. The boots were large and scuffed across the instep and propped on a stool draped in black cloth. The back of the throne was decorated with an old top hat, considerably worn and beaten in on one side.

  It was Smallbone’s hat. And the cloth under Fidelou’s boots was Smallbone’s coat.

  Nick went cold with dread.

  Hiram’s leather-clad legs stood beside the throne. “Here you go, Boss. One coyote pelt, slightly used.”

  Fidelou stood and moved forward. “On your knees, mon brave,” he said gently.

  Jerry whipped off his red baseball cap and knelt on the red carpet.

  Fidelou unfolded the pelt, holding it by snout and tail. It was black, with white markings on the muzzle and forepaws. “With this pelt,” he said, “I welcome you as a member of the pack. It gives you the power to run on two legs or four, to speak as men do or howl with your packmates under the moon. As long as the coyote remembers the man, the choice is yours. Do you understand?”

  Jerry’s eyes were fixed on the pelt. “ ’Course I do,” he said.

  Nick almost felt sorry for him.

  “Bon.”

  Fidelou dropped the pelt over Jerry’s head. It heaved and rippled as it took hold. Jerry gave one startled yell that slid into a howl, and then a black-and-white coyote stood and shook himself like a dog coming out of the water.

  Fidelou leaned forward and growled at Jerry, who whined and crouched and lowered his head submissively.

  “Bah! A coward, this one, fit only to eat offal.” The burning yellow gaze fixed on Nick, who did his best to pretend he was unconscious. “Get up, boy. I know you are awake.”

  Nick stood, a little unsteady on his feet.

  Fidelou looked him up and down, a sneer on his thin lips. “You are Smallbone’s apprentice? But you are nothing but a child!”

  “I’m fourteen,” Nick lied.

  Fidelou showed fangs the color of old ivory. “Had you forty years behind you, you would be a child to Fidelou, whose years number more than five hundred. Still, I am generous, me. I offer you a place in my pack.”

  Nick looked at his cousin, currently engrossed with chasing an itch across his black-furred flank with frantic nibbles. “No, thanks.”

  Fidelou was amused. “Your cousin has the soul of a mouse.
But you, you have esprit; you have courage. Join me of your free will and you will stand at my right hand.” His eyes bored into Nick’s. “What do you say to that, eh?”

  Nick wondered just how dumb Fidelou thought he was. “That you’re a liar.”

  “You do not trust me?” The torchlight reflected redly off his long, wet teeth. “I will give you proof of my goodwill. You hate this cousin of yours — I can smell the hatred upon you. Bon. I will kill him. Better, I will let you kill him with your own teeth. In return, you will be my lieutenant and run by my side. It is a good bargain, no?”

  It was beginning to dawn on Nick that Fidelou, though powerful, wasn’t very smart. “You’re a psycho,” he said flatly.

  “You refuse, then? Dommage. Yet see how kind a master I can be. I give you time to reflect! Think well, Smallbone’s apprentice. For if you do not take the skin I offer you, you will certainly lose your own. Hiram, take him to the dungeon.”

  It said a lot about Fidelou that the entrance to his dungeon was right behind his throne. Hiram manhandled Nick through a narrow arch and down a long twisting stair that gleamed like snail slime in the flickering torchlight. Nick fought to keep his footing and tried not to think about what might happen next.

  At least Smallbone would be there.

  The stairs ended. Hiram shoved Nick down a short dark hall and into a long low room smelling of damp and tar and smoke. In the sullen light of a few torches, Nick saw a rack, an iron maiden, a brazier ringed with pokers, and a heavy table holding a selection of tools and devices of unknown but certainly painful uses. Against one wall hung four narrow iron cages, three of them empty except for a scattering of bones that might or might not have once belonged to animals. The nearest one was occupied by a pale, chunky man in a plaid shirt and dorky red suspenders — some stupid upcountry hick who must have gotten in Fidelou’s way somehow.

  There were no other prisoners.

  The bottom fell out of Nick’s world.

  Hiram shoved him into the middle cage and turned the key in the lock with a hollow clunk. “Better think fast. The Boss ain’t what you might call patient,” he said, then put the key in his pocket and left.

  Nick collapsed onto the bottom of the cage. Iron bars — or possibly bones — dug into his legs and butt, but he hardly noticed. He was too busy trying not to think about what might have happened to Smallbone. He rested his head against the bars and fought the urge to cry.

  “If this ain’t a jeezly mess, I don’t know what is,” said a voice. “What’re you doing here, Foxkin?”

  The words were Smallbone’s, but the voice was not. Nick jerked upright. “What did you call me?”

  “Your proper name.” The prisoner snorted. “Jerry, indeed. I’ve seen Jerry. You ain’t a thing like him.”

  Nick squinted through the forest of bars between them. This guy wasn’t any older than Dinah’s dad, and though he wasn’t exactly fat, he was a lot more solid than the skinny old man Nick knew. It wasn’t a glamour, either. Nick had seeing through glamours down cold.

  “And you’re not a thing like Smallbone.”

  An impatient sigh. “What did I tell you about believing your eyes? Use your noggin, Foxkin. Who else knows you said your name was Jerry? Who else knows you figured out a way to gather eggs by magic? Who else knows you lied about knowing how to read? Who else would you expect to find locked up in Fidelou’s jeezly magic-proof dungeon?”

  “I don’t know!” Nick groaned. “Maybe Smallbone told Fidelou all that under torture or something and you’re just messing with my head.”

  “Ain’t you the suspicious cuss!” the prisoner exclaimed. “All right. You got me dead to rights. I confess. I ain’t Smallbone. Nobody is Smallbone, not at the moment, anyway. There ain’t no Evil Wizard Smallbone.”

  Nick swore.

  “You watch your mouth,” the man who said he wasn’t Smallbone snapped. “Properly speaking, the Evil Wizard Smallbone is a coat, a top hat, a house that runs itself, and a bookshop with a mind of its own.”

  Nick shook his head like Groucho getting rid of a fly. “If you’re telling me it was the bookshop that turned me into a spider, I don’t believe you.”

  “Land o’ Goshen!” the man said. “Maybe it’ll help if you think of Smallbone as a job, like being president. There always is one, but it ain’t always the same feller. Evil Wizard Books and the clothes come with the job, like the White House and the red phone.”

  Nick thought about this. It made sense, in a Smallbonish way. And it did explain a lot. Why Smallbone never took off his hat and coat. Why the Smallbone Mutt and Hell Cat and Ollie described was so different from the Smallbone he knew.

  “So what you’re saying is that it’s just the coat and the house doing all the magic for you?”

  “All that stuff don’t do magic. They are magic. There’s a difference. I learned magic from the books, same as you. I got a thousand spells at my fingertips and I know how to use ’em. The coat just makes ’em stronger, like a magical battery. Makes me stronger, too.”

  “And the hat?”

  “It covers my bald spot.” Not-Smallbone held up a plump forefinger. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “Shut up and listen.”

  In the darkness overhead, Nick heard a faint thumping and scraping, like somebody letting a bucket down a well. A closer, louder thump was followed by a bitten-off yowl. The yowl was familiar. So were the muddy legs clutching what looked like a clothesline descending in jerks from the ceiling. A few feet above the floor, Hell Cat released the line, landing on her feet. She smelled like rotting leaves.

  “Hell Cat,” Smallbone said wearily. “What a surprise. How many apprentices you bring along on this expedition, Foxkin?”

  “Just her and Mutt. Hell Cat”— Nick gestured through the bars —“meet Smallbone, without his coat and hat.”

  Hell Cat trotted to Smallbone’s cage and looked him up and down. “You sure? I wouldn’t have thought Smallbone’d be a red-suspenders kind of feller, myself.”

  “Then you’d be wrong, wouldn’t you?” Smallbone said drily.

  “So,” said Nick. “Are you going to get us out of here?”

  Hell Cat shrugged. “Probably not, unless you know where the keys to the cages are.” She went over to the rack and the iron maiden. “Golly.” She poked a rusty spike with a curious finger. “What’s this for?”

  Smallbone growled. “Torturing little girls who were a whole lot more useful when they were cats.”

  “Very funny.” Hell Cat turned to the rack, gave the wheel an experimental twirl. When it squealed rustily, she levitated backward, rattling the tools on the table like castanets.

  Smallbone made an exasperated noise. “Go away, Hell Cat. In fact, go as far away as you can. Mutt, too. Fidelou wants a fight, and I’m going to give it to him. If I win, you can come back to Smallbone Cove if you want to. If I lose —”

  “What do you mean, if you lose?” Nick exclaimed. “You can’t lose.”

  “You sure of that?” Smallbone asked grimly. “I ain’t. Fidelou may be crazy as a coot, but he’s old and he’s strong. He’s fought more wizards’ duels than you’ve had hot dinners.”

  A panicked buzzing ran along Nick’s bones. “But you beat him before, didn’t you?”

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “That wasn’t me. That was my master Smallbone. Mean old cuss, with a temper like dry powder. Knew pretty nearly everything there was to know about transformations, but even he needed the coat to stand up against Fidelou.” Another pause. “And Fidelou wasn’t even out to kill him. Fidelou just liked a good fight.”

  Like Jerry, Nick thought. “But he’s out to kill you?”

  The cage rattled gently as the latest Smallbone shifted his position. “Ayuh. He’s bored, Fidelou town is falling apart, he wants a new town to spoil. Without the coat, I’m pretty strong, but I’m still human. He’s not.”

  Hell Cat looked determined. “We’ll just have to rescue yo
u, then.” She picked up a mallet and a pair of rusty pincers. “I bet I can get the locks open with these.”

  Smallbone shook his head. “You’re forgetting the Rules. Evil wizards work alone. They don’t have help and they don’t get rescued. Ain’t nobody never read you a fairy tale, Hell Cat?”

  “My mama couldn’t read,” Hell Cat said. “Besides, that ain’t even true. Fidelou has lots of help. What about the Howling Coyotes?”

  “Minions don’t duel. This is between him and me, and may the best villain win.”

  Smallbone’s voice said the topic was closed, but Nick wasn’t so sure. Maybe the Rules couldn’t be broken, but they could be gotten around. The beginnings of a plan came into his head.

  “Hell Cat,” he said slowly, “can you come over here a second?”

  “What’re you up to, Foxkin?” Smallbone asked sharply.

  “Nothing,” Nick said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Nick beckoned to Hell Cat and whispered to her through the bars.

  Hell Cat gave him a slit-eyed glare. “You’re nuts.”

  “I know,” Nick said. “Will you do it?”

  Suddenly, Hell Cat grinned. “Sure.”

  Nick couldn’t quite manage to grin back, so he pulled Smallbone’s pipe out of his pocket. “Use this to find us. Just hold it up and let it swing. The stem will —”

  “I know, I know,” Hell Cat said. “Good luck!” She ran back to the clothesline, tugged it twice, and hung on as it jerked up into the ceiling. When she was gone, the dungeon seemed darker and danker than ever.

  “Foxkin,” Smallbone said, “you going to tell me about this plan of yours?”

  “What plan?” Nick said.

  “The one you was telling Hell Cat just now. Unless all that whispering was about how you’ve been sweet on her all this time and was afraid to say.”

  This struck Nick as funny. “That’s right,” he said. “I asked her for a date. Now can I get some sleep? It’s been a long day.”

  Nick had no intention of actually sleeping, but when he woke up with a jerk, the dungeon was pitch black. The torches had gone out. Time had passed; he didn’t know how much. At least it was still night — at least he hoped it was. In any case, if he was going to go through with his plan, he’d have to do it now.