by Mike Ashley
“Sand sprites,” muttered Frithkin. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
The sprites said nothing. There was only the swishing sound of the little whirlwinds that held them together. Their arms were uplifted to the sky, and their writhing fingers became long and tenuous and seemed to reach upward to the sky itself.
Where a mortal woman would have had feet, the sand sprites had only twisting whirls of sand. The spinning winds had lifted the sand grains that formed their bodies from the desert itself, leaving a shallow depression in the desert floor. Their hands, reaching higher and higher, found what they sought. They brought water down from the clouds themselves, letting it flow through the interstices in their granular bodies and spreading it like a blanket on the ground below. Within minutes, the depression was full of cool water.
The two sand sprites, their work done, whirled away to a point several yards distant. The winds slowed. Stopped. The sand that had made up their bodies collapsed and became two ordinary piles of sand, like any other little dunes in the desert.
“You never cease to amaze me, Master,” Frithkin said thoughtfully, studying MacCullen’s face. He knew perfectly well that sand sprites cannot be commanded to do anything, except perhaps by the King of Faerie himself. There was more to this than met the eye. But he said no more.
“That pool will warm up and evaporate pretty quickly,” said MacCullen. “Fill up the water bags; let the animals drink. Then I’m going to take a bath and wash off the mules and Roderick.”
“I hope you can do that trick again,” said Frithkin. “We’re only a quarter of the way across this desert.”
“We’ll make it, Frithkin,” the Magus said shortly.
“I never doubted it, myself,” said the Empty Knight complacently. “If Magus MacCullen says he’ll do a thing, he does it.”
“That’s true, my lord,” said Frithkin. “He always comes through. But sometimes I wonder how.”
It took the travelers four days to cross the Blistering Desert. Twice more, at MacCullen’s call, the sand sprites brought them water. They were just running short of the last of it when they reached the other side. The moon had just set and the Faerie dawn had brightened the sky.
As they crossed the edge and their mounts trod on grass again for the first time in four days, Magus MacCullen quietly flipped the gold ring behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small swirl of sand surround it and it was gone.
“Thanks,” said the Magus in his softest voice.
“You are welcome, Magus MacCullen,” whispered a dry, slightly gritty voice in his ear.
Three days later, weary but pleased with themselves, the three travelers arrived at the Nameless City near which stands the great white castle of King Huon du Cor, the Sovereign Ruler of Faerie. They were fully a week ahead of time. And, since they had gained six days by taking a shortcut across the Burning Desert, they should be three days ahead of the Duke of Duquayne instead of three days behind.
“Now what do we do?” asked Frithkin.
“Do?” said the Empty Knight. “Why we go straight to the Palace, of course, and announce ourselves.”
“Not just yet,” said the Magus. “Let’s not be too hasty. I want to look things over first. Is there a good reliable inn within the City gates, Frithkin?”
“Several. We’re still solvent, Master Magus; how good a suite do you want?”
“Roomy, but nothing too showy. Not the best in town, certainly.”
“You don’t want the Queen Titania, then. How about the Hermes Trismegistus? A reliable place, and they cater to the magician trade, anyway.”
“They’ll be all booked up for the Convention, won’t they?” the Empty Knight asked.
The goblin grinned and shook his head. “You’re in Faerie now, my lord, and any Faerie Inn always has room for one more.”
“All right,” said the Magus. “We’ll go there. And then I want you to scout around and find out what the news is, if any.”
They went through the gates of the Nameless City, and through streets filled with shops and stores of all kinds. The people in the unnaturally clean streets were of all kinds and descriptions. Besides the near-human folk, who differed only by their pointed ears and their pale, translucent skin, there were goblins and gnomes and elves and brownies, and some odd-looking folk that even the Magus didn’t recognize.
They got a suite of rooms at the Hermes Trismegistus, and Frithkin went out to search for news. He returned in the middle of the afternoon.
“Not much in the way of news, Master,” he said. “The Duke of Duquayne hasn’t arrived yet. I checked with the guards at the City gates and with the guards at the Palace. No sign of him, though he’s been invited to stay at the Palace by the King himself.”
“I don’t understand it,” the Magus said musingly. “The Duke and his troop aren’t magicians. Or are they? Why should they be coming to Faerie at Convention time?”
“Oh, didn’t you know? There’s to be a tourney. Jousting and mock battles and everything. A big show that His Majesty is putting on for the entertainment of the visiting magicians. There’ll be the usual prizes: a gold cup for the winner and a gold medal for the runner-up, plus lots of silver medals and ribbons for the others.”
“By George!” said the Empty Knight enthusiastically, “I must enter!”
Frithkin grinned.
But Magus MacCullen nodded in agreement. “Indeed you must, Sir Knight! Indeed you must! Here—” He reached in to his belt pouch and brought out a silver piece. “—go down to the nearest armorer and get yourself a polish job. If they ask why you want the armor left on, give ’em your story about the vow. Make sure they do a good job, too. We want you to shine for this affair.”
The Empty Knight stood up and took the silver piece in his gauntlet. “You’ve been very good to me, Master Magus,” he said solemnly. “I shall repay you as soon as I come into my own.”
“Think nothing of it. Now go down and get that polish job.”
As soon as he was gone, Frithkin said: “What’s got into you, Master? You know he won’t last a minute in the first bout.”
“Frithkin, let me do the worrying, will you? Here’s another silver piece. Go down and get me a can of gold paint, a can of red paint, and a can of black paint. The quick-drying kind that isn’t available outside of Faerie. And a brush and some solvent. Got it?”
“I’ve got it, but . . .”
“Go, Frithkin, go! I want you back here in fifteen minutes.”
When Frithkin came back with the paint, he saw that MacCullen had very carefully cleaned the surface of the knight’s shield.
“I am afraid to ask what you are up to, Master,” said Frithkin.
“Then don’t! Go to the public room and drink some beer or something! Come back when you’re not so inquisitive.”
Rather hurt, Frithkin did as he was told. He still had change from the silver piece, so he spent the next half hour drinking beer as he had been told. But his curiosity finally got the better of him, and he went back upstairs.
“There!” said MacCullen as soon as Frithkin opened the door, “How do you like it?”
Frithkin stared at the shield. It had been painted red, with a black chevron, like the letter A without the cross-bar, coming up to the center. Under this black inverted V was a round, gold disc, and there were two more on either side and just above the chevron.
Frithkin just stood there, open-mouthed.
“I know,” MacCullen said gently, “you’re going to say that I can’t do that. Putting my older brother’s arms on another’s shield is a violation of the laws of heraldry, chivalry, and common decency. Well, you are perfectly right.” He reached out and touched the shield. “It’s dry now. Good. You win, Frithkin. I repent me of my actions.”
And he took the brush and the black paint and painted the whole thing over black.
VI
The next day, the three travelers rode up to the Palace gates an
d asked to be admitted.
“You names and ranks, please,” said the Captain of the Guard.
“I am the Magus MacCullen, Sorcerer of the Seventh Circle. This is my familiar, Frithkin, a subject of His Fey Majesty. This gentleman is a knight of noble birth who wishes to remain anonymous for the time being. He has taken a vow.”
“You vouch for him, Master Magus?”
“I do.”
“Sign here. Thank you. You may pass.”
Others had come early, too. Around the great jousting field, several silk pavilions, blazing with the colors of their owners’ coats of arms, had already been erected.
“Let’s go on out there and pick a spot to put up our own tent,” said Magus MacCullen with a chuckle. “Five will get you a hundred that there will be a herald along before the pavilion is up five minutes.”
“No takers,” said Frithkin. “Five will get you a hundred that—” He stopped. “No, no bet. I was going to say that they’ll make us take it down in five more minutes, but you’ve got something up your sleeve.”
“How often does a magician hear that?” the Magus asked rhetorically. “But this time you happen to be perfectly right. Let’s go.”
Frithkin was perfectly right, too, in not betting either way. The Magus had sunk nearly all the money he had left in buying the big black silk tent that they put up, and four minutes after they had finished tightening the guy ropes, a gentleman in a herald’s costume came by to investigate. The Empty Knight and Frithkin were inside the tent, rolling down the sides to insure privacy, but the Magus was standing outside. The gentleman in herald’s costume walked all the way around the pavilion, then came over to MacCullen. He was short, with gray hair around a balding head, and had a rather mild smile on his face. Only the pointed ears and the fathomless sea-green eyes, which had no pupils, indicated that he was of Faerie stock. “Pardon me,” he said gently, “I am Argent Wyvern Pursuivant. You are the Magus MacCullen?”
“I am, sir.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Magus. The record of your distinguished family is well known to us here in Faerie.”
Distinguished, but poor as churchmice, MacCullen said to himself. Aloud, he said: “It is good of you to say so, Argent Wyvern.”
“Now, I understand,” the Pursuivant went on, “that one of your companions is a knight who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“That is correct. I vouched for him at the gate.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But you can’t put up a pavilion unless you intend to enter the tournament, and I can’t permit anyone to enter the tournament unless I know his rank and status. Your friend can’t remain anonymous if he wishes to enter the tourney. The others have a right to know that they are jousting against one of noble blood and not a— er— commoner.”
“Of course they do,” said the Magus, as though he were pondering the situation. “Ah! I think I see a way around this. Would it be possible for me to have a short audience with His Majesty?”
“Well-l-l . . . perhaps. I would have to arrange it through my superior, the Faerroi King of Arms, since it is a heraldic matter.”
“Excellent. You see, the knight of whom we are speaking is under a vow not to reveal his identity. I, too, am unable to tell you who he is. But there are a few bits of information I can give – only to His Majesty, of course.”
“What sort of information?” asked Argent Wyvern.
The Magus smiled. “Without breaking my vow, I can tell him what coat of arms lies under the coat of black paint on my friend’s shield.”
Argent Wyvern Pursuivant broke into a knowing smile. “Ah! That, of course, would solve the problem completely. I shall make arrangements, Magus.”
“Thank you, Argent Wyvern.”
An hour later, Magus MacCullen was in audience with His Sovereign Majesty, Huon, King of Faerie, and his chief herald, the Faerroi King of Arms. After making a low bow and going through the usual amenities, MacCullen waited for the King to speak.
“Magus,” said King Huon, “what’s all this about an anonymous friend of yours?”
The Magus explained, giving the story about the vow, which was perfectly true, as the Empty Knight had said, but misleading.
“So you see, Sire,” MacCullen finished, “he does not want his identity revealed to anyone just at the moment.”
“Then he can’t fight,” said the King. “Right, Faerroi?”
“Quite, Your Majesty,” the herald agreed.
“If Your Majesty were to issue a statement saying that you guarantee that the Black Knight is of blood noble enough to engage the others without their losing their honor, wouldn’t that suffice?”
“Why, certainly,” said the King. “But how can I do that if I don’t know who he is?”
The Magus looked at Faerroi King of Arms. “Without breaking my word, I can blazon for you the achievement beneath the black paint on the Black Knight’s shield.”
The Faerroi King of Arms smiled. “Aha! What is it?”
“This must remain secret.”
“Certainly.”
“The shield is blazoned thus: gules a chevron sable between three bezants – the whole debruised by a field sable.”
“Only temporarily, I hope,” said the herald.
“Gules a chevron sable between three bezants,” King Huon repeated. “That’s—”
“The Red MacCullen,” said the King of Arms, who knew the coat of arms of every knight in Christendom and Faerie. “Head of the Clan MacCullen and older brother to the here present Magus MacCullen.”
“The Red MacCullen! Why, his deeds are famous! One of the greatest knights in Christendom!” said King Huon.
“I shall be happy to tell my brother that you speak so highly of him, Sire,” said the Magus, making a resolve to do so the next time he was home.
“He hasn’t gone in much for tournaments, though,” King Huon observed. “In fact, he has not done much of anything in the past five years.”
“A matter of money, Your Majesty,” said MacCullen. “I admit it for your ears only. It would be convenient for the family coffers if the Black Knight were to win a few ransoms of armor at this tourney.”
“Ah, that’s the Irish, all right,” said King Huon. “Brave but poor. Very well, Magus. I will give my Royal Word that the Black Knight is of noble birth, that no man’s honor would be sullied by a bout of arms with him.”
“Thank you, Sire,” said MacCullen with a low bow.
And that was that. As he left, MacCullen sighed with relief. He had managed to get what he wanted without telling one single lie.
Two days later, Magus MacCullen was having a less formal audience with His Majesty. The King had invited MacCullen and several other magicians who were early arrivals to an informal talk over a few glasses of mulled wine. MacCullen was being polite but saying very little. He left most of the talking to the others. He had some heavy thinking to do. There were still parts of this puzzle he did not understand.
One of the sorcerers, a Magus Ponzoni, was holding forth on the possibility of making a spell that would prevent Faerie gold from disappearing when touched by cold iron, when the door opened and a liveried servant approached the King. He whispered something in the King’s ear. The King smiled happily. “Bring him in! Bring him in, by all means!” As the servant left, His Majesty turned to the eight magicians and said: “Gentle Magi, there is a friend of mine coming to whom I would like to present you. An old friend, whom I haven’t seen for several years. He has come here to take part in the tournament, and that should make it a spectacle worth watching.”
At that moment, a tall, handsome man, with jet black hair and a jet black, neatly trimmed beard, entered the room. He stopped and bowed low. “Your Majesty, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“My dear Duke!” said His Majesty. “Permit me to present to you some of our guests.” Each of the magicians was named; each made a proper bow to the Duke. MacCullen watched narrowly, but the Duke showed no reaction when the King said: “M
agus MacCullen.”
And MacCullen was not at all surprised when the man turned out to be the Duke of Duquayne.
“My lord King,” said the Duke when the introductions were over, “I am the bearer of unhappy tidings. There is a demon loose in your realm.”
The King shot to his feet. “What? I shall complain to His Satanic Majesty at once! This sort of thing cannot be tolerated!”
“Your pardon, Majesty,” said the Duke hurriedly. “My terminology was inexact. I should have said ‘a fiend in human form’. A murderer and an impostor. A butcher of the worst sort. I, myself, saw him run down and kill a defenseless peasant, and there are other crimes against him which I can testify to. I have been unable to apprehend this monster thus far, but with your help it can be done. I happen to know that he is already within the borders of Faerie and is less than three days behind me.”
“His name?”
“I don’t know his name, Your Majesty. He gives none. But he wears black armor – which the base-born cur has no right to – and rides a black horse. A horse named, of all things, Roderick.”
King Huon’s face clouded over and he glanced at MacCullen, who looked as innocent as possible. The King looked back at the Duke.
“Three days behind you? Are you certain of that?”
“Quite certain, Your Majesty.”
“Ah. I was worried for a moment. You see, we already have a knight here answering to that description. But I happen to know who he is, and he is neither base born nor a murderer. And his horse is called—” He glanced at MacCullen.
“Black Beauty,” MacCullen said complacently. He had distinctly heard Frithkin call Roderick a black beauty. No lie there.
“Yes, Black Beauty,” said the King. “Besides, this man has been here for three days now.”
“Then he couldn’t be the man we are looking for,” said the Duke firmly. “But steps must be taken against the murderer.”
“Have no fear, my friend,” said the King. “Orders will be issued immediately. Your word is good enough for me. If he is found, he will be hanged instantly from the nearest tree.”
