by Frank Tuttle
"Back?" Said Wistril. "Why the devil should they come back?" he asked. "They emptied my larder, drank my ale, burned my Towers," he said. "I hardly think such a band of ruffians will climb the mountain again just to kick down the ashes."
Kern yawned. Just beyond the glass-less windows, an owl hooted, and deep in the pine forest beyond the Keep the wumpus cat howled at the moon.
"You mentioned the other Houses," said Kern. "Have you been in communication with them?"
"I have," he said. "It seems the Lady sought refuge at five other Houses, before ours. Five times she pleaded; five times the Baron arrived, and blood was shed, and she barely escaped with her life and honor intact."
"Five times?" Kern whistled. "How big is her army, Master?" he said.
"She has twenty in her band," said Wistril.
Kern went wide-eyed.
"The Lady Emmerbee is something of an unusual woman," said Wistril, and Kern heard the grudging admiration in Wistril's voice. "Not once did she beg me for pity, nor did she mention the wedding suit," he said. "In fact, she hardly mentioned the Baron at all."
"You've spoken to her?" said Kern. "Recently?"
"Three nights ago," said Wistril, airily. "She has a glass, and demonstrated some small proficiency in its use."
"Heaven and Hades, Master," said Kern. "You used a glass with jinnis peeking through all the windows?"
"Lord Essraven assured me the jinni was away, searching the Mist Marsh as it was ordered," said Wistril. "As the Lady had taken refuge in the ruins of the Wayson house outside Ollabat."
"The Wayson house? The Wayson house infested with vampires?" said Kern.
"I used the same term myself," said Wistril. "'Infested.' The Lady Emmerbee assured me she was getting along famously with them, and was even interviewing the inhabitants for an article she hopes to submit to the Review Thaumaturgica next Spring."
Kern rubbed his eyes. "Wait a moment, wait a moment," he said. "The Lady has led her band of twenty across the width of the Kingdom, eluding the Baron at every turn," he said. "And just the other night she called you on the glass to tell you she was interviewing a family of vampires to publish an article in Thaumturgica next year?" Kern rose from his desk. "Master, why didn't we send for her to rescue us?"
"Bah," said Wistril. "You are overwrought."
"I am indeed," said Kern. He pushed back his chair, and crossed to the front of his desk. "I'm for bed," he said. "Please let me know if any of your other lady-loves send letters. I'd like to have time to pack before the Baron and his jinnis come back to stay the winter."
Wistril closed his eyes, and vanished.
Kern stomped all the way to his bed-room.
"There," said Kern, rubbing his pitch-blackened hands on a rag. "The house of Kauph shall go thirsty no more."
Before him, twenty-eight head-high barrels of Laughing Horse ale rested in the cool East Tower cellar. Above him the larder was stocked with fat smoked hams and ranks of canned vegetables. Two dozen Marchland turkeys, smoked and hanging from hooks, hung in the back of the cellar; Kern was sure that Wistril still shuffled among them, pinching this, glaring at that, conferring with Cook in hoots and signs as he planned the month's menus.
All is well, thought Kern -- and no sooner had he thought it, than the sound of a badly-played trumpet rang out.
Kern dropped his rag and raced for the stairs. The trumpet sounded gain, and a dozen gargoyles answered, and by then Kern was up the stair and blinking in the sun.
Wistril met him at the gate.
"What is it, Master?" said Kern.
Sir Knobby's flapping shadow darkened the ground before them, and in a moment Sir Knobby himself settled lightly on the ground and folded his wings. "Hoot," he said.
Wistril went pale.
"No," he said.
"Hoot!"
Kern snapped his fingers in Wistril's face. "Master?" he said. "What is it?"
"The Lady Emmerbee," said Wistril. "She has started up the mountain."
Kern frowned. "I thought she was supposed to head south," he said. "Still, why all the fuss? You yourself said she was a remarkable woman. Don't you think you can just explain to her that Kauph is doomed to bachelorhood?"
"The Baron and his army are close on her heels," said Wistril. "She cannot turn back now. She was trapped, as soon as she set foot upon our road."
Kern fell silent. "I suppose what's-his-name still has a pet jinni?"
"I fear he does," said Wistril.
Kern sighed. "Then there's nothing you can do, is there?" he said.
Wistril glared. Kern knew he could not hear the hoof-beats, or the strained, gurgling breathing of the horses, or see the hopelessness on the faces of the Lady or her band, once they knew the Baron was behind and Wistril's gate ahead, and nothing but a sheer, killing fall to one side and rock to the other. Kern knew neither he nor Wistril could see that -- but he decided than that Wistril wasn't looking down the mountain road, but back across the years, instead. Looking back in the eyes of a little girl he'd met a but for a single time. A little girl he'd vowed to marry one day, if she ever came calling.
And thus when Wistril took in a breath, Kern knew what he was going to say.
"Prepare to shut the gates," said Wistril. "Allow the Lady and her party in. No one else. Is that clear?"
Gargoyles hooted.
Wistril turned, faced his House, faced Kern. "You may leave," he said. "Any of you. All of you. With no shame, no dishonor. You know what we face."
No one stirred, except Sir Knobby, who spat and casually pulled a yard-long club from the shrubs about the gate. "Hoot," he said, brandishing the club. "Hoot."
"I second that," said Kern, and Wistril let out his breath in a whoosh. "Then hide," he said. "Hide, until such a time as you may strike a blow," he said. "Apprentice," he said. "Accompany me."
He walked away, and Kern fell into step beside him. "Where are we going?" he said.
"We are fetching a white bed-sheet and a lance," he said. "We shall affix the sheet to the lance, and then we are going to hoist a wedding flag over the ramparts of Kauph. Heaven help us all."
"Amen," said Kern, and the doors to the North Tower flew open, and Wistril disappeared inside.
Kern heard the horses first. A moment later, a billow of dust rose up, and then the Lady and her entourage thundered across the Wizard's Bridge and charged toward Wistril's gates.
Behind them rode the Baron. Kern twisted the brass tube of his spy-glass until he caught sight of the Baron himself. He stood up in his stirrups, his helmet askew, a bottle of Wistril's good wine in his left hand, and wine dribbling down his face. He's been enjoying the chase, Kern thought, and he savored the moment when the Baron's jaw fell open at the sight of Wistril's bright walls and the wide, sturdy gates.
"He's seen us, Master," said Kern.
Wistril squinted through a much larger telescope which rested atop a three-legged stand. "So has the Lady," he said. "Ride, woman! Ride! Why does she stop?"
Kern pulled his eye away from his spyglass. "Can't put it off any longer, Master," he said. "It's time to fly the flag."
Wistril sighed. "Confound it," he snarled. "Raise it."
A line of gargoyles hooted the order to the wall above the gate.
The bedsheet rose, and began to snap in the wind. Kern turned his spyglass back on the Baron.
The man's jaw dropped, and he flung Wistril's wine-bottle to smash against the road. He bellowed an order, and charged, and his men followed suit.
Kern lowered his glass. The Lady Hohnserrat -- that must be her, out in front, he realized -- shouted something and motioned her party forward, toward the gates.
And then she turned her exhausted mount back, and charged headlong at the foremost of the Baron's men. In an instant, something long and bright rose up waving in her hand, and only after the sun glinted off it twice did Kern realize the Lady Emmerbee Hohnserrat had taken up a sword and was charging the Baron's army, all alone.
"Fool woman
!" shouted Wistril. "What is she doing?"
"Saving her folk," said Kern. The Lady charged forward, and Kern saw blades lifted in response, the Baron's among them. "Master, you've got to -- "
Wistril was gone. Kern whirled, mouth agape, searching the walls and the courtyard and the wide-eyed stares of the gargoyles, but Wistril was gone.
A gargoyle hooted and pointed. There, between the Lady and the Baron, a darkness fell over the ground. It fell, and grew, and then it leaped suddenly upon the Lady, and it vanished, and with it the Lady and her horse.
The Lady's party charged through Kauph's open gate. Shouts rose up from them when they realized the Lady was not in their number.
Beyond the gate, the Baron's men charged on, the Baron himself at the fore.
Kern scrambled down the winding rail-less stair that led to the courtyard, leaping off them when he was half a dozen worn treads away from the ground. "Close the gate!" he shouted. "Close it, and get me a bow!"
He charged into the courtyard just as the gates swung shut. Twenty burly gargoyles struggled with the closing-bar, and when it fell into place a shadow fell over the courtyard, and left Wistril, standing, and the Lady Emmerbee, still charging, in its wake.
The Lady's horse came to a wild-eyed halt just inside the gate, causing the sweat-soaked party of strangers there to scatter before breaking out into a hoarse, ragged round of cheers and fist waving.
Wistril walked toward the Lady. "Welcome to Kauph," he said, halting long enough to bow. "I regret -- "
The Lady Emmerbee threw her sword down hard upon the ground and clambered wearily down from her saddle. "You've doomed yourself, Master of Kauph," she said. "If you've half the sense I think you have you'll open the gates and apologize and I'll let yonder Baron marry my sword."
Kern slowed to a trot.
So that's the missus, he thought. She's certainly not the dainty Lady I was expecting.
Indeed, the Lady Emmerbee Hohnserrat was anything but dainty. She was tall. Taller than Wistril, certainly, by a good half-foot, if not more. Her hair was brown, shorn as short as Kern's; her arms were long and tanned, and her hands were strong and brown. She wore tan cotton breeches and tough black boots and a man's brown work-shirt, and except for the delicate gold-rimmed spectacles perched sideways on her sunburnt nose she looked more like the cook at the Laughing Horse than she did a baroness.
The Lady saw him looking, and glared.
Wistril spoke. "I shall apologize for nothing," he said.
"He'll strike you down and burn you out," she said, turning her gaze back to the wizard.
"He has tried once already," replied Wistril, calmly. "As you can see, he was less than successful."
A booming knock sounded at Wistril's gate. "Open this gate!" bellowed the Baron. "Open it, or I shall break it down!"
Wistril spoke a word, and the sound of men and horses milling about beyond his gates was silenced. In fact, Kern realized, everything was silenced. No birds sang, no wind blew -- the whole of Kauph was as silent as a tomb, as if it had been suddenly and utterly removed from the rest of the world. The trees beyond the walls were still, as though painted, and Kern watched in wonder as the crow that had been flapping its way up the mountain froze unmoving in the air above him.
Wistril turned to him, and pointed toward the Lady's confused, dusty entourage. "See that they are made welcome," he said. "I shall attend to the Lady. We shall dine promptly at six."
And with that he held out his arm.
The Lady pushed her spectacles straight, and regarded Wistril as though her were mad. Kern caught her eye, and nodded, and spoke.
"We'd best all do as he says, Lady," he said.
"We shall dine while that madman looses demons upon us?" she said.
Kern shrugged. "Welcome to Kauph, Lady," he said. "Dinner before demons. Shall I show your horse to our stables?"
Wistril sat behind his desk, his eyes closed, his breathing steady and deep.
Kern sat and shuffled papers. He'd tried finishing a letter to the College, in which he declined an invitation to speak on Wistril's behalf, citing as reason the press of research and the length of the journey. But try as he might, Kern couldn't concentrate, and finally he put down his pen in disgust and rose.
"Master," he said. "What are we doing? How long will your new spell last? What happens when it fails?"
Wistril didn't stir. Kern sighed and stamped across the room and gazed out at the sky. The crow still hung there, motionless, frozen in time.
For now. Kern had no idea what Wistril had done, but he knew that no such spell could last forever, or even for very long. And when Kauph rejoined the mountain and time took its course once again, Kern knew an angry jinni would be there to greet them.
Wistril, though, had bidden the Lady and her party welcome, and had shown them to their rooms, and had steadfastly refused to respond to any of Kern's frantic queries concerning his plans for surviving the jinni's inevitable wrath. Instead, the wizard had instructed Cook to start supper before marching to his desk, closing his eyes, and, for all appearances, drifting off to sleep.
"Please, Master," said Kern. "Say something."
"Cease this useless hand-wringing," said Wistril. Kern turned, and the wizard opened his eyes. "It does not become you."
"Sorry, Master," he said. "Jinnis make me nervous. I'd be less nervous if I thought you were doing something about our current situation."
Wistril, shrugged. "I can do nothing while Kauph remains in stasis," he said.
"And how long will that be?" asked Kern.
Wistril looked at the goblin-clock. "Another seventeen days," he said.
Kern shook his head. "Seventeen days," he said.
"Only a fraction of a second will pass, beyond the spell," said Wistril. "Which is why the jinni has not appeared; Herthmore has not yet uttered the words which will send it against us."
"But when the spell fails?"
"We shall be set upon in a matter of moments," said Wistril.
"I don't suppose we could sneak out the back, while the spell is in place," said Kern. "Not that anyone would."
"No one may enter," said Wistril. "Sadly, no one may leave, either."
"So what are we going to do?" said Kern.
"Dine," said Wistril. He lifted an eyebrow at Kern's wrinkled white shirt and dusty breeches. "You should see to your attire, beforehand," he said. "The day seems to have taken its toll on your garments."
"So a madman, a sorcerer, and a jinni are gathered at the gates, and we are to press our shirts and sit down to roast turkey?" asked Kern. "Master, please tell me you've done more than set a menu."
Wistril smiled. "Apprentice," he said. "See to your clothes. Inquire as to the Lady Emmerbee's needs. And rest assured that after we dine, I shall insure that House Carthrop and its varied minions shall trouble us no more."
Kern smiled. "I knew you were up to something, Master," he said. "I'll see to the Lady, straightaway."
And he turned, and was gone.
Alone, Wistril let out his breath. The goblin clock turned its face toward him, and it's steady tick-tock took on a accusatory tone.
"Oh, hush," said Wistril. "I shall think of something." He closed his eyes, once again. "I tell you I shall."
The clock ticked on, softer than before, but no slower.
No night fell to Kauph within Wistril's spell, so Kern marked the passing of days with the goblin-clock and his desk calendar and, of course, the passage of Cook's grand meals. The Lady's folk, thin from their long flight across the Southlands, attacked Wistril's Great Hall table thrice daily with gusto befitting larger, more numerous folk; even the Lady Emmerbee had seconds and thirds, noted Kern, and once Cook had to make a fifth tray of soufflé© when the first four massive servers went empty before dessert.
Kern sat across from the Lady, that first meal, and watched her as she dined. Kern had thought her lean and somewhat mannish at first sight of her, out in the courtyard; now he saw that the Lady Emmerbee
, after a bath and with a change of clothes, was quite fetching. She was thin, true, and her glasses never quite sat straight across her sun-pinked nose, but her eyes were green and merry, her smile was quick and easy, and her manner, when she wasn't being pursued by villains, was gentle and kind.
She sees first to her people, Kern noticed. Though she must have been starving, she didn't lift a fork until the last and the least of her people, a skinny, wide-eyed groom of perhaps twelve years of age, was seated and served. And she spent a good part of the meal making sure everyone had their fill, and then some.
I think I like you, thought Kern. And even as he'd thought it, she'd looked up at him and met his eyes, and smiled, and Kern had smiled too.
Though awkward at first, Wistril's elegant meal and calm manner had soon pulled her out, and before the Cook set the second course she and Wistril were chatting merrily away about the courtship rituals of Southern vampires and their possible origins in the courts of far-off Arnentot.
Kern noted, with mild shock, that so taken was he with the conversation that Wistril let his favorite garlic-stuffed eggplant go cold in his plate.
This was hardly the last such shock; if Kern had named the days of the Baron's first siege by the unpleasantness that befell him, he named the days of the Lady's stay by the surprises she brought. First had been The Day Wistril Invited a Lady Into His Study; then had come The Day The Lady Joined Wistril in His Laboratory, and the Day We Heard Them Laughing in the Courtyard.
Even old Genner, the Lady's grizzled, sunburnt butler, took note and shook his head. "I'd have never thought it," Genner said to Kern and Sir Knobby, one dark-less night just after dinner on The Day Wistril Put on His Good Robe For No Apparent Reason. "She's a wearin' dresses. She's taken to doin' up her hair." Genner slapped his knee. "I hear tell your Lord Kauph was just like her before they met. No marryin' for me, and talk such as that, day in and day out."
"Hoot," said Sir Knobby, and Genner laughed. "I knowed it," he said. "I knowed it the minute they started talkin' over them glasses. Up all hours, they was. All hours."
