The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  As a man, he knew that he could not live this way, remote from all else, majestic as it was, and mighty as his talons were. When I was a cockroach, and even a leech, I would have given all to be here, in the clear, clean cold air, away from the dirt and squalor of the tavern floor and Vedastus’s mean cave lair.

  He sighed. Ah well... the grain always looks riper in the other fellow’s field, they do say.

  Again, there was the question of what Oriabel had meant by saying that she was trying to keep him safe. Weren’t they both trying to keep themselves safe? He longed to ask her about it, but knew that her mood remained unsettled; he had no wish to aggravate her further.

  * * *

  They flew on, stopping when Rámon’s complaints grew too strident, occasionally swooping down on prey, mostly hares, though once they successfully attacked a yearling deer and gorged on its flesh. Another time they came upon a flock of slow-flying geese and Guilhem took one.

  Rámon kept apart from them while they were hunting and would not watch them devour the goose.

  At noon of the second day the eagles approached Córdoba stretched out like a cat sunning itself along the banks of the Guadalquivir, the city’s white stone villas and narrow paved streets shining below them in the strong sunlight. Many of the homes they saw presented blank facades to the streets but boasted delightful inner patios, several of them with fountains, climbing flowers and a citrus tree or two.

  After making a pass over the city they landed in the low hills outside it, where Rámon again spoke the spell returning them to their customary shapes. Oriabel altered the spell to darken their skin somewhat, making them appear more Arabic.

  They entered the city as travelers from the north, seeking a place to stay for the night as close to the mosque as they could manage. As it happened, the Silver Moon, an inn in the Jewish quarter, had rooms available. Guilhem spoke no Hebrew and only a smattering of the Saracen tongue, but the nuggets he displayed made up for any deficiency in language skills.

  After purchasing new garments to replace their old travel-stained clothing they took a stroll around the city. The streets were cool and far cleaner than any Guilhem was familiar with in France. He found himself missing the homey stench of sewage and offal, but consoled himself with the thought that, if all went well, he would soon be home.

  Other than that, he found much to enjoy in Córdoba. People of all types thronged the byways: Christians, Jews, Saracens. He noted that each trade had a neighborhood in which its booths were set, so that there were streets of rug sellers, streets of perfumers, streets of metal workers, and so on. He could have spent many hours browsing among the goods. Oriabel, too, seemed fascinated by the displays, especially those devoted to clothing and textiles. They purchased figs, almonds and sugar-cane from vendors and ate them while walking toward the mosque. The parrot perched on Oriabel’s shoulder attracted some attention and several people offered to purchase him, but Oriabel only smiled and shook her head without replying.

  The area immediately adjacent to the mosque thronged with people, mostly white-robed Saracens, many of whom were streaming out of the building. Guilhem squinted at the sun. “I believe we have just missed the time of the noon prayer,” he said. “It’s called salat al-zuhr, and takes place just after the sun passes its highest point in the sky. The next time for praying comes in the late afternoon, and is called salat al-‘asr. Salat al-maghrib comes after sunset, and then salat al-‘isha, between sunset and midnight. And then the cycle begins again before dawn, with salat al-fajr.”

  Oriabel eyed the crowd. “So there are people here throughout the day and night”

  “Yes, to some extent. It will be a difficult task to get inside unnoticed. Yet that is what we must do... we need the book hidden therein.”

  Into his nostrils drifted an unpleasant scent redolent for a moment of home; then he recognized it. Fairy! He looked around at the people nearby, and realized that the odor emanated from a group of what he at first took to be variously dressed pilgrims.

  “Oh no!” He gripped Oriabel’s arm.

  “What is wrong, Guilhem?”

  “Look!” With a shaking finger, he pointed to the travelers. Most wore peaked leather cloaks and in their uniformity appeared as if they belonged to some obscure religious sect or denomination. But Guilhem easily detected their odor, though it was obviously not discernable to the human throng outside the mosque. Most wore at least a simulacrum of human appearance, though some of these were apparently having difficulty maintaining their disguises, for their faces and bodies seemed to shift subtly, making Guilhem feel slightly nauseous as he watched the alterations. The true humans didn’t appear to notice anything out of the ordinary.

  There were one or two masques, hedge-wizards of human stock, among the multitude of fairies. Guilhem’s attention was taken by one, an older man wearing a most peculiar red hat. He wondered if the masques were attracted by the gathering of so many magic beings.

  She squinted at them. “Fairies. But... there are so many of them! At least sixty! I have never seen this many fey grouped together in a public place before.”

  “Nor have I. It is not at all like them, from my understanding of the race. Note that the Saracens do not recognize the creatures for what they are.”

  She nodded slowly, never taking her eyes off them. “Some spell must be operating to render them unremarkable to anyone whose attention is attracted. But what could their presence mean, I wonder?”

  Guilhem shook his head, choking on the group’s effluvium. “I know not. But come, we must fly before I vomit.” He gagged. “I thought just one of them smelled bad! This is more than I can tolerate. I did not expect to find this place infested with them.”

  They took refuge in a nearby tavern, sitting at an outdoor table where they could watch the fey group without their attention being noticed. The table had the additional benefit of being downwind. Guilhem noted that the odor seemed not to trouble Oriabel. Doubtless because of her own careless approach to hygiene, he thought sourly.

  They observed the fairies for some time, being careful to betray no surprise at the weird gathering. Despite having taken some pains to present themselves in approximately human form and size, many of the fairies hadn’t bothered to soften their otherwise grotesque appearance. The faces peering out from within their hoods displayed the severely undershot jaws, huge noses, irregular or absent teeth, beetling foreheads, swollen bald domes, receding chins and so on of the more extreme examples of human physiognomy.

  I know right well that they don’t look like this when they’re in their natural form. This is all a game to them, like a masked ball. What are they about, I wonder? Guilhem amused himself for a while by picking out smaller groupings, perhaps families, among the larger number. Given his experience with the race, as well as their distinct odors, one type from another, he thought he could discern two families of gnomes, at least eight fairies, and a wood elf—this last distinguished by its enormous ears and preposterously long feet. He nudged Oriabel. “See there? Some of these sprites haven’t got the least idea how to present an acceptable façade.”

  Oriabel nodded. “I marvel that the good citizens of Córdoba do not take greater notice of such anomalies.”

  “I, too. It must be as you say, that a glamour distracts anyone who notices them. Mark you! It has noticed us.” For the wood elf had broken from the group and was crossing the square on its absurd feet, straight toward the table at which Oriabel and Guilhem sat. “What shall we do?”

  “Nothing yet,” Oriabel murmured, never taking her eyes off the approaching creature. “Let us see what he wants of us.”

  Nearing them, the elf bobbled and tottered as though unused to walking. Guilhem watched it with mixed amusement and apprehension. He could not help drawing back a little as its inordinately disgusting odor wafted into his nostrils. He envied Oriabel’s apparent indifference to the fetor.

  To his consternation the elf stepped up to him, standing closer than any man would
dare. “Fairy friend!” it chirped, waving long, knuckly hands. It thrust its head forward out of its cloak so that its earlobes slipped out down its chest.

  “Yes, yes. But please go away; we want nothing and you are clearly occupied.”

  Oriabel kicked him under that table, silencing him with a look as fierce as the eagle she had so lately been could have managed. “We do want some information,” she said. “Won’t you join us?”

  Guilhem groaned inwardly but kept his face impassive as the elf, after puzzling over the empty chair for a moment, sat by balancing its rear on the top of the chair and resting its feet on the seat. The café’s other patrons stared curiously at this display, but the elf twiddled its fingers at them and they all turned their attention to their meals and drinks. The elf looked at Guilhem and Oriabel and shrugged. “No one will notice us now.”

  “Hmmm,” said Oriabel, “perhaps you will teach me that little spell, uh...?”

  “Sedgewood,” the elf said, not offering to shake hands. “Gonzalez Sedgewood, at your disposal.”

  I would dearly love to dispose of this little perisher, Guilhem though, but kept his face set in as pleasant an expression as he could manage.

  “Information, you said?” Sedgewood continued.

  Guilhem pointed at the mosque across the plaza. “What is so fascinating about that place, friend Sedgewood? Never have I seen so many of your people gathered together around a place of men.”

  “Doubtless you will not see such again,” Sedgewood replied. He pointed his chin at the mosque. “Gnomes, fairies, succubi, an incubus even... and even a few human wizards. Other fairy friends, you know.”

  “Oh?” Guilhem’s interest was piqued. He had never conversed with or even met another fairy friend, and would have liked to swap experiences.

  “Don’t be distracted,” Oriabel said. “I pray you, Sedgewood, what’s the attraction?”

  “It’s really most amusing,” the elf said. “I—”

  But a call from within the crowd near the mosque caught the elf’s attention. “Gonzalez! Leave those people alone and get over here.”

  “I am sorry, my queen,” Sedgewood called back. “This man is a fairy friend; I thought—”

  Guilhem and Oriabel saw an exceptionally tall and thin female step away from the weird throng surrounding the mosque. She looked like a spider with a mop of untidy red hair. Her feet and earlobes were even larger than Sedgewood’s.

  “You didn’t think at all,” she said. “Come now!”

  With an apologetic glance over his knobby shoulder at Guilhem and Oriabel, Sedgewood scuttled away toward the spindly female elf.

  “Curse it!” Guilhem, watching him melt back in to the scrum of fairies surrounding the mosque, clenched his fists. “There is something untoward going on in there, and unless we learn what it is, we may not be able to put our hands on the book we seek.”

  “You are quite correct, my duke,” Oriabel said thoughtfully. “We must get in there somehow.”

  “But not as insects,” Guilhem said, scowling. “I know that gleam in your eye. There must be something else you can do.”

  “I was not thinking of insects at all,” she said.

  “In sooth, I do not believe you.”

  She adopted a wounded manner. “You wrong me, Guilhem.”

  “No doubt. Nonetheless, I will not have it.”

  “Calm yourself. I have a better idea. But first, let us find a secluded place where we can discuss the matter.”

  “I see no reason why we cannot discuss it right here.”

  She sighed. “Very well. It seems likely, does it not, that as Christian humans we will not be able to gain entry to the mosque? Nor will we be able to win past the massed denizens of Faerie.” She looked expectantly at Guilhem, who nodded. “What I propose, then, is this.” She went on to explain her plan. Guilhem objected at first, but presently allowed that her idea had some merit. At last he agreed to it, albeit with reluctance.

  So it was that, an hour later, two orange-skinned, lank-haired kobolds approached the crowd of supernatural wayfarers around the mosque. None of the assembled sprites paid them any attention. Rámon had been sent back to the Inn of the Silver Moon, where he would be able to gain entry to their room through the window, which Oriabel had left open.

  “I think we are safe enough,” Guilhem muttered behind his muscular and knotted hand. “Our lack of specific scent will not be noticed among so many, as you suggested.”

  “Let us hope my glamour holds true,” she replied. “I do not think it will wear off, but I’ve before never tried this amid this large a crowd of fey.”

  “I have complete confidence in you,” said Guilhem, who in fact did not but wasn’t about to admit it. He felt perspiration gathering under his arms, and fought back anxiety at the risk they were taking as well as mounting revulsion from the sickening odor of the magical beings around them. He glanced up at the sky. “I hope we can get inside soon,” he said. “The day grows old, and it will soon be time for salat al-‘asr, the late afternoon prayer.”

  Oriabel grunted. “Perhaps, and yet these many fairies do not seem at all concerned. There is something most odd here.”

  They joined the crowd and could converse no more. The masses of fairies shuffled into the mosque through three doorways, which slowed their progress. Guilhem and Oriabel moved along, Guilhem all the while forcing his gorge to remain in his belly where it belonged. The task was so demanding that he was through the circular doorway and inside the mosque before he quite realized it. The building’s interior was filled with countless rows of stone columns holding aloft striking red and white striped Islamic-style arches. Vaulted skylights allowed daylight to filter into the enormous chamber.

  Everything within was intricately carved, with lovely tile work and beautiful mosaics adorning the walls. There was nothing figurative, as in Christian liturgical art, and he remembered that the Saracens’ religion forbade the representations of people, animals, and even plants. Outside of that restriction, however, he could not deny that they turned out magnificent works of art. The mosque was obviously a solemn place of worship. Even though he was through and through an infidel, as the Saracens would term him, their civilization was nothing to belittle. And well he knew, from his own experience, of their skill as warriors.

  Oriabel nudged him in the ribs. “We must be about our business,” she said.

  He pushed his admiration of the great building to one side and nodded. “The book,” he said in agreement. “In a basement, I believe... but how to gain entry to it?”

  “Not necessarily a basement,” Oriabel murmured. “Look there.” She nodded toward the left.

  Guilhem looked in that direction and saw one of the revenants wander out of a room bearing a scroll. “That could be a library,” he said. “Or a place of study.” He moaned softly. “This place is vast! How shall we ever search it all without being apprehended?”

  “I...” She frowned. “Wait. There is something supernatural here,” she whispered.

  He snorted. “Well, of course. We are wading through a river of fairies and elves and such-like things.”

  “No, it is not that... can you not sense it? You, fairy friend? There is something different here, I tell you, something alive and terrible.”

  He looked around, and shook his head. “I see nothing more than the degenerate creatures around us.”

  “Perhaps the mass of them overwhelms its emanations. You must have some sensitivity to it.”

  “I know not of what you—” He broke off as a sudden involuntary shudder rippled through his flesh. “Wait.”

  Watching him, she nodded. “Ah, now you feel it, eh?”

  “I feel something, surely. I know not what. I have never known its like.”

  “Perhaps we should leave and return later where there are not so many of the fey present.”

  “Oh, now, hold—if that means coming back here in the guise of mosquitoes or botflies or some such vermin, I object vehemently
!”

  She clutched at his arm. “Keep your voice down. We are not among friends.”

  “This I know,” he said, shaking off her hand. Now a sensation of ineffable dread began seeping through him. There was something here, as she insisted: something dreadful, something far beyond even the monstrous ifrit plaguing his homeland. For the first time in his life he felt as though he were confronted by a foe utterly beyond his ability to even understand, much less combat.

  Shivering, he realized that the light outside had grown dimmer and redder as the sun set. He frowned; how had he lost track of the time? Hadn’t there been a prayer? A cold wind seemed to blow through his very soul. Something was wrong here, terribly wrong. Then vague movement above his head caught his eye, and he noticed something peculiar filling the domed ceiling above him: many glistening cords or ropes, at first no more noticeable than spider silk but taking on definition and substance as they came more clearly into view with the waning of the sunlight. His dread grew. The entire interior of the building was in fact full of drifting skeins of near-insubstantial web-work drifting above the heads of the fairy throng.

  He drew Oriabel off to one side of the grand gallery. Several of the fairy folk had likewise split off from the main mass, seemingly interested in some bit of architecture or ornament, so he and the witch attracted no attention. “Look there,” he murmured, pointing at the gauzy webs. “What are those?”

  “What are what?”

  “You cannot see them?”

  She shook her head. “Of what do you speak, duke?”

  Realizing with dismay that the strands were invisible to her, he explained what he was seeing. They decided that the phenomenon must be occult in nature, and that he, as a fairy friend, and sensitized to the paranormal, could discern the things where she could not.

  “At least not without casting a spell, I believe,” she said, “and I wouldn’t want to attempt that here for fear of attracting undue attention.”

  “But what do these webs portend?”