The Inadequate Adept

by Simon Hawke

  "I did?" King Billy asked. "Why did I do that?"

  "To restock the royal dungeons," explained Queen Sandy, "so that Warrick could use the prisoners for his magical experiments, instead of simply having his minions snatching people off the streets."

  "Ah, quite so, quite so," King Billy replied, nodding. "I remember now. I was receiving petitions complaining of my subjects being snatched off the street and I told Warrick he could use the prisoners, instead." He frowned. "I thought that solved the problem."

  "It would have," replied Queen Sandy, "except that Warrick had already depleted the royal dungeons, and in order for there to be more prisoners, there had to be more arrests, and in order for there to be more arrests, there had to be more laws for the people to break, and in order for there to be more laws, there had to be new edicts. And Warrick suggested that you give the royal sheriff your approval to issue some new edicts, announcing some new laws. Do you remember now?"

  "Aye, of course," King Billy said. "So that should have taken care of matters. But then why all these new petitions?"

  Queen Sandy gave him one of her special looks.

  "I just hate it when you give me one of your special looks," complained King Billy. "It always makes me feel as if I've done something particularly foolish."

  " Tis because you always do something particularly foolish to provoke such looks," Queen Sandy replied.

  "Well... what have I done this time?"

  "You have solved a problem with another problem," said Queen Sandy. "Warrick's minions were snatching people off the streets, and so the people sent in petitions of complaint. You chose to allow Warrick to use the prisoners in the royal dungeons, so that he wouldn't need to snatch people off the streets, only he had already used up all the prisoners without asking your permission, so instead of giving him a royal reprimand, you agreed to his suggestion that the royal sheriff issue some new edicts, which would bring about increased arrests, so that now, instead of Warrick's minions snatching people off the streets, your minions are snatching people off the streets and giving them to Warrick. Nothing's changed, my dear, except that instead of the people blaming Warrick, now they are blaming you. And that is why you are receiving more petitions."

  "Oh," said King Billy. "I see." He put his fingers up to his lips in a gesture reminiscent of David Niven (at least, it would have been reminiscent of David Niven if anyone in this universe had known who David Niven was). "Well, I suppose I shall have to do something about that."

  "That would be nice, dear," said the queen, lying back underneath the covers once again.

  King Billy brightened. "I know! I shall issue a new edict outlawing petitions!"

  "Oh, go to sleep!" Queen Sandy said.

  At approximately the same time, in another part of town, a rather seedy part of town, specifically, the corner of Cutthroat Avenue and Garotte Place, it was nearing closing time in The Stealers Tavern and the tavern keeper announced last call.

  "Last call!" announced the tavern keeper redundantly.

  "I'll have another," said the small, dark, feisty-looking, hawk-faced man sitting at the end of the bar. He tapped his mug for emphasis.

  The tavern keeper grimaced and brought the man another mineral water and lime. "You sure you don't want a real drink, now?" he asked the hawk-faced man for the fourth time."

  "For the fourth time, I don't drink," the hawk-faced man replied.

  "You know something? They say you can never trust a man who doesn't drink," the tavern keeper grumbled.

  "You know something? They're right," the hawk-faced man replied. "Now shut up and leave me alone."

  Harlan the Peddlar drank his mineral water and scowled at the retreating back of the tavern keeper. He was not in a particularly cheerful mood. Business was slow. In fact, business was downright awful. At the rate things were going, he thought, he'd soon be reduced to eating the spam stew handed out at the local soup kitchens. It was all part of Bonnie King Billy's FTP Program, which stood for Feed The Poor, although most of the poor people in the kingdom called it Something-Else The Poor.

  "I never should have picked this business," Harlan the Peddlar mumbled to himself through gritted teeth. "I should've been a bard, instead. Bloody bards have all the luck. Wandering about, strumming on their blasted zithers, telling fantastical lore.... S'trewth, 'tain't workin'. That's the way to do it. Making money telling fantasy. Aye, 'tain't workin'. That's the way to do it. Money for nothing and your maids for free."

  Knopfler the Bard walked up behind the peddlar and tapped him on the shoulder. "Watch it," he said.

  "Sod off!" said the peddlar. He finished off his drink, took a deep breath, and exhaled heavily. "What I need is something new," he said to himself. "Something people will want, and that no one else has to offer. Something unique, so I'll be able to control the price. Only where is one to find such a commodity? What could it be?"

  He paid for his drinks and left the tavern, going back out to his peddlar's cart. He paid the ruffian he'd hired to watch it while he was inside, scowling as he counted out the coins, yet knowing full well that if he hadn't bought such protection, not only would all his wares have disappeared, but probably his cart and horse, as well.

  "Whatever it may be," he mumbled to himself as he climbed up into his cart, "I shan't find it in Pittsburgh. Too many craftsmen here, too many peddlars stopping by to call on them. I'll need to find some craftsman somewhere who hasn't been discovered yet. Aye, that's what I'll need to do. Scour the countryside and find some unknown, starving craftsman somewhere who's got something completely different. What could it be, though, what could it be?"

  The determined peddlar whipped up his horse, and the cart slowly lumbered off, heading toward the road leading out of the city. He'd bought provisions enough for a long journey. Somewhere out there, in the wilds, he knew he'd find what he was seeking. He had no idea what it was yet, but when he found it, he'd know.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Doc, wake up!"

  "Mmmmm?" Brewster opened his eyes and started when he saw Shannon standing by his bed, looking down at him. She stood in her habitual, aggressive posture, legs spread apart, hands on her hips, close to the pommels of her sword and dagger. All things considered, it was quite a sight to wake up to first thing in the morning.

  "Doc, we need to talk," said Shannon, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

  Belatedly, Brewster realized that it had been a warm night and he had kicked most of the covers off himself. He realized this when Shannon cast a lingering, appreciative gaze down along his body, stopping at... well, you know where she stopped. She smiled as he made a quick grab for the covers and pulled them up over himself.

  "You seem pleased to see me," said Shannon with a smile.

  "That... uh ... often happens with men... in the morning," Brewster explained, blushing furiously.

  "Indeed?" said Shannon, raising her eyebrows. "I hadn't known. I'd never lingered long enough to find out."

  "Yes, well...." Brewster cleared his throat awkwardly. "What was it you wanted to discuss?"

  "We can speak while you get dressed," said Shannon.

  "Uh, no...that's okay," said Brewster hastily. "That can wait. Go ahead, I'm listening."

  " Tis about my men," said Shannon.

  "What about them?"

  "You have the greater part of them laboring here upon your sorcerous works," she said. "Now, 'tis not that I'm complaining, mind you, I quite understand that there is much to do, what with Mick and Robie requiring help in making the many-bladed knives, and tending to the brewing and the manufacture of the magic soap, and then there are the stoves to make, and the wire to be pulled and the copper pipes to be formed... well, 'tis all most wondrous, you see, but Bob has almost all the men assisting in these various works, which leaves me but a few to dispose about the forest trails to ply our brigand trade. We are taking in less booty now than ever before, and I fear that at this rate, we shall soon be in rather dire straits."

  Brewster
nodded. "I see," he said. "You're worried about your income."

  "Income?" Shannon asked with a puzzled frown.

  "Uh, yes, the booty, as you put it," Brewster explained. "The profits that come in. In-come, you see?"

  "Ah," said Shannon, comprehending. "In-come." She nodded. "A useful expression. I shall have to remember it." She crossed her long and lovely legs and Brewster shifted uncomfortably beneath his covers. He wished she'd wear more clothing. "So... you see my difficulty," she continued. "You said there would be profit to be made from this manufacturing process of yours. My concern is that you have most of my men working here day in and day out, yet thus far, we have seen none of this profit, this in-come, as you call it."

  "I understand," said Brewster. "However, you must understand that this sort of thing takes time."

  "How much time?" Shannon asked.

  "Well.. .first, we have to establish the process and work out all the problems," Brewster explained. "Then we have to build up our inventory.. .our stock. as it were. And then, we have to institute our marketing program. Now, I've been giving that a lot of thought, because it's not really my area of expertise, you see, and I'm not quite certain how to go about it yet, but once we have-"

  "All this means nothing to me," Shannon interrupted impatiently. "And it sounds as if 'twill take a great deal more time. I fail to see the wisdom in this. As brigands, we reap our profits much more quickly."

  "Yes, I suppose that's true," said Brewster. "However, it's a much more uncertain business. I mean, you can't depend on it for steady work, if you can see my point. Aside from that, the risks are greater. And it's dishonest."

  "What has that to do with anything?" asked Shannon.

  "Well... wouldn't you rather have a steady income, with a far greater potential for profit and much less risk?" he asked.

  "Aye, I would," said Shannon, "only when does all this come about? How long shall I have to wait?"

  Brewster sighed. "Shannon, we're barely getting started," he replied. "Please, try to be a little patient. These things take time. However, I promise you, if you can only be patient a little while longer, it will be well worth it. You'll see."

  Shannon pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Very well," she said. "I shall wait a while longer and try to be more patient, as you ask. But we had best see some profit soon."

  She turned and strode out of Brewster's room, leaving him sitting up in bed, clutching the covers to himself and feeling very anxious. She was the most unpredictable young woman he had ever met, and the most difficult to figure out. Not that he'd ever been much good at understanding women in the first place.

  He looked around the room as he sat in the crudely made wooden bed, clutching the coarsely woven blanket. What he saw were bare stone walls, with several sconces mounted on them for torches. There was a tall, standing brazier, a wooden trunk for storing his doming, several crude wooden benches, a wooden table with a bowl and pitcher for washing up, and a couple of goblets for drinking. A crudely woven carpet covered part of the stone floor. There was no glass in the narrow windows, and he was suffering from mosquito bites. At least, he thought they were mosquitoes. In a world like this, he thought, they were liable to be almost anything. All in all, it was the most Spartan, primitive existence he had ever known.

  He had already lost track of how long he'd been here. He estimated it to be about a month, perhaps a little more. Pamela must be frantic, he thought. He'd disappeared before, but only for a day or two at most, never for this long. He imagined that she'd probably called all the hospitals in London, and then gone to the police and filed a missing persons report. He was a valued asset to EnGulfCo, so they would probably have detectives looking for him, as well. Only they'd never find him. The days would stretch on into weeks, the weeks into months... how long would she wait? What must she be thinking?

  In the quiet hours of the night, Brewster had always concentrated all his thoughts upon the task at hand, the next project, and the next one after that, the best way to design a solar heater, the most feasible way to install the plumbing, the problem of electricity and whether or not it would be possible to design some sort of crude light bulb, anything to keep him from thinking the thought that was going through his mind right now....

  Suppose he never made it back? He could, quite conceivably, be stuck here in this primitive, medieval world for the remainder of his life. He tried to force his mind back to a more pragmatic frame. There was a great deal of interest in this world, a great deal to learn. It could easily become the research project of a lifetime. But of what use would it be if he could never bring any of this information home with him?

  On one hand, he could probably have a good life here. With what he knew, he could become an important man in this world, another da Vinci, and he could become wealthy and respected. And there was much that he could do for these people. Yet, on the other hand, he did not belong here. He already had a life, a good life... a life he'd left behind. Chances were, he'd left that life behind forever.

  A momentary feeling of panic overwhelmed him. And then he heard a rustling sound as Thorny, the little peregrine bush, uprooted itself from its planter and scuttled across the floor toward him. It stopped beside his bed and tentatively, very gently, stretched out its branches to touch him very lightly, so as not to scratch him. Almost like a puppy, sensing its owner's depression and offering a little love in an attempt to ease it.

  Brewster stopped himself as he was about to stretch out his hand and stroke the thorn bush, as he would a dog. In spite of himself, he had to smile.

  "Thanks, Thorny," he said. "You're a good friend. I feel better now."

  Thorny's little, red-gold leaves seemed to perk up and it rustled its branches in response.

  "Man's best friend is his bush," Brewster said with a chuckle. "I wish Pamela could see you. Well... who knows? With any luck, Thorny, maybe someday soon, she will."

  In the meantime, like it or not, I'm here, he thought, and I might as well make the best of it. That meant not only doing what he could to improve his own situation, but to pull his own weight, as well. In some cases, he'd already done that. Bloody Bob had been so nearsighted when they'd first met that the brawny, aging brigand had been practically blind. Now, with the "magic visor" that Brewster had designed for him, with crudely ground glass lenses sandwiched between the two riveted bronze pieces that made up the visor, Bloody Bob could see. Even if these home-ground lenses weren't quite up to the modern optometrical standards Brewster was accustomed to, for Bloody Bob, it was like a miracle, and there was nothing the old brigand wouldn't do for the mighty sorcerer who had cured his blindness.

  In Mick's case, the paybacks were still coming. Brewster owed a great deal to the muscular, little leprechaun. If not for Mick using his tremendous physical strength to rip open the buckled door, he never would have managed to get out of the crash-damaged time machine, and when the liquid oxygen tanks exploded, he would have gone up with it. On top of that, Mick had taken him in, and fed him, and given him the use of the stone keep. And it was Mick who had facilitated his reasonably smooth entry into this world, by introducing him to the brigands and the local fanners and vouching for his character, as well as his "magical abilities."

  Yes, he certainly owed Mick a lot, but in some ways, he had already paid him back at least some of what he owed him. The still he had designed for Mick would dramatically increase his production of peregrine wine, brewed from mash derived from the roots of the ambulatory peregrine bushes, and the Franklin stove he'd shown Mick how to make for his own use in the keep would be another source of profit for the industrious leprechaun, who had already taken orders for more. The "many-bladed knife" production, which had seemed to generate the most excitement, was underway and soon their first batch of Swiss-Army-style knives would be complete. Mick clearly understood the benefit in all these things, just as he understood the profit to be made. Likewise, the brigands who were helping on these projects were equally enthusiastic. The problem was Bla
ck Shannon. She kept growing more and more restless and impatient.

  He sighed and shook his head. "I just don't know what I'm going to do about that girl," he said to himself, out loud.

  "Belike you are the only man who'd think of asking such a question," the gem-studded, golden chamberpot replied from its place on the chair across the room.

  Brewster started and glanced at the pot sharply. "Damn, Brian, you startled me," he said.

  "Sorry," the pot replied. " 'Twasn't my intention, I assure you."

  "I know," said Brewster, getting up to put on his clothes. "I just can't seem to get used to the idea that you're actually a person, under an enchantment. I keep forgetting and thinking I'm alone in the room. Thoughtless of me. I'm really the one who should apologize."

  "Think nothing of it, Doc," said the pot. "I'm quite accustomed to it."

  "Well, just the same, I'm sorry for forgetting," Brewster said.

  "Doc, my friend, believe me, you have nothing to apologize for," said the pot. " 'Twas a long time I spent locked up within that wizard's trunk and I am grateful for a civilized man to speak with for a change. Especially one who never thinks of using me for the purpose for which chamberpots were all intended. Tis a wonderful thing, this toilet you've invented. For that alone, you have my eternal gratitude."

  "Yes, well... thank you, Brian," Brewster said awkwardly.

  "However, returning to the point at hand," the pot continued, " 'tis a mystery to me why Shannon is of such concern to you. You are a man, she is a wench, and a rather fetching one, at that. She also finds you comely. I say throw her down and mount the pony and she'll cease to trouble you."

  Brewster shook his head. "It would take a better man than I to throw that 'wench' down," he said. "Quite aside from the fact that 'throwing a woman down and mounting the pony,' as you put it, is a rather disrespectful way of treating the opposite sex, and not at all my sort of thing. On top of which, it's a rather simplistic solution and one that I doubt very much would work."