by Simon Hawke
The king left, satisfied. However, he would not remain that way for long. His easygoing, laissez-faire method of monarchy was about to undergo considerable modification, which would make the royal sheriff very happy, for it would give him a great many new edicts to enforce, very strict edicts that Warrick would diplomatically suggest and that the royal sheriff would eagerly implement in the king’s name. Being even slightly late with revenues, spitting on the street, public drunkenness and lewd behavior, not having proper change for the tollgates, and a host of other things that most citizens of Pittsburgh had never thought twice about would suddenly become crimes punishable by immediate imprisonment and the dungeons would provide Warrick with a steady supply of subjects for his thaumaturgical research. And poor, bumbling King Billy would bear the brunt of the people’s resentment.
“There is, of course, another way,” said Warrick, looking up toward the ceiling. “A certain voice in the ether could supply me with the answer to the riddle of the so-called time machine.” Unfortunately, the narrator couldn’t really do that, because it would cause serious interference with the plot.
“Well, in that case, ‘poor, bumbling King Billy’s’ predicament would be the narrator’s responsibility and not mine,” said Warrick.
Nevertheless, it was Warrick who came up with the idea of instituting strict new edicts to fill the royal dungeons with prisoners he could use as his subjects.
“Perhaps,” said Warrick with a sly smile, “but ‘tis your plot, unless I am mistaken.” Back at the keep (and not a moment too soon), Brewster hadn’t slept a wink all night. He’d been on adrenaline overdrive, talking to Brian and trying to assimilate everything he’d learned. Suddenly, it was a brand-new ball game. In a brand-new ball park, so to speak. The trouble was, the rules were slightly different here. In this stadium, the runners didn’t steal third base, they waved their fingers at it and made it disappear. The bat boys were leprechauns, the team mascot was a unicorn, and the fireflies hovering over center field were actually fairies. (And having belabored that analogy to death, we should probably move on.) After Brian’s enchantment had kicked in again, Brewster had carried him downstairs to the kitchen of the keep-which, he’d decided, would be the next area in need of modernizing- and they talked until the sun came up. Brewster heated some water and made himself some tea from an herbal mixture Mick had given him. It tasted rather lemony and was about ten times more stimulating than coffee. It had the effect of keeping Brewster wide awake-very wide awake- and giving him a nervous energy that would have kept him up for the next forty-eight hours even if he wasn’t too wound up to sleep.
Brian had been a great deal easier to deal with as a handsome prince than as an ornate chamberpot, and not only because it felt a lot more natural to talk to a person than to an appliance. (Or was it a utensil? Anyway, you get the general idea.) As a chamberpot, Brian was somewhat caustic and sarcastic, not that Brewster could really blame him, and though his personality didn’t really change in any significant way, there was an edge to him that took some getting used to.
In fact, the whole idea of man turning into an object took some getting used to. Talking with him while he was in his enchanted form was positively surreal and a graphic reminder of the sort of world Brewster had wound up in. Though several weeks had passed, Brewster hadn’t really seen anything that would have led him to suspect he had been transported to another universe in some kind of parallel dimension. The peregrine bush, he realized belatedly, should have been his first clue, but he had merely assumed it was some rare plant, perhaps some sort of localized mutation, that had not survived into the modern age he came from.
He had seen nothing of the creatures Brian had mentioned, unicorns and fairies and nymphs, and while the existence of such creatures might have seemed improbable, he had little difficulty believing they existed after seeing a chamberpot turn into a man and back again.
Brian had told him all about how he had wound up being enchanted. His version of the events leading up to his current predicament closely followed the legend related by Pikestaff Pat, and Brian told it with a surprising amount of candor.
Following his disappearance from the palace, after he’d been stolen by one of the palace servants, Brian had passed from hand to hand, often fairly rapidly, as those into whose possession he fell became aware that he was no ordinary chamberpot-and not just because he was encrusted with gems. The people of the twenty-seven kingdoms were extremely wary of enchanted artifacts, and rightly so. Adepts were always experimenting with strange new spells and it was not uncommon for such spells to be dangerous, or even to go wrong somehow.
At first, Brian had raged at his successive owners, and then pleaded with them, begging to be taken to a sorcerer who could reverse the spell, but it was all to no avail. As soon as people found out their new, ornate chamberpot could talk, they couldn’t wait to get rid of it, jewels or no jewels. And as the legend of the werepot prince grew, passed on by his former owners, adepts became aware of it and grew highly interested in finding him. A number of them did.
At first, Brian had seen this as a sign of hope, because he knew his father would reward any adept who could restore him. However, no adept had ever succeeded in breaking the enchantment. Worse still, none of them would return him to his family, for to do so would have meant admitting they had failed to restore him to his rightful form. None of them had wanted to admit that another adept had devised a spell he couldn’t break. Brian had found this particularly frustrating, because the result was that he spent a great deal of time languishing in storerooms, trunks, and secondhand shops.
He eventually had become more or less adjusted to his fate, if not totally resigned to it. Though he may have been spoiled and pampered by his family, Brian was an intelligent young man, as Brewster had already observed, and his anger and bitterness over what had happened to him frequently manifested itself in a personality that could be highly ascerbic and sarcastic. In other words, as Pikestaff Pat had put it, Brian could be a royal pain to those who came in contact with him.
Adepts did not take kindly to such behavior. Having failed to restore him to his proper form, they generally concluded that there was no profit in a talking chamberpot, regardless of its value as a curiosity, and little point in keeping it around. Especially if it was going to be abusive. So they either unloaded him on someone else, or if Brian had really gotten on their nerves, they tried destroying him.
“You mean they actually tried to kill you?” Brewster said.
“Life is cheap to most adepts,” Brian replied, “so long as ‘tis someone else’s life. Aye, they tried to kill me, some out of spite, some out of fear that I would tell others their powers had not been sufficient to restore me. But ‘twas not so easily accomplished. I was beaten with large hammers, thrown from great heights, tossed down wells, struck with axes, once I was even thrown into a fire in an attempt to melt me down.” “My God!” said Brewster. “How horrible! How on earth did you survive?” “Ah, ‘tis the nature of the enchantment, you see, that I cannot be destroyed,” Brian replied. “ ‘Twas meant I should suffer throughout all eternity. Pound me with hammers from now until the end of time and you shall not make a single dent. Toss me down a well and I shall float until some peasant comes along to fish me out. Strike me with the sharpest axe, yet you shall fail to split me. Toss me into a blacksmith’s forge, yet no matter how fierce the heat, I simply shall not melt. I may blacken somewhat, but wipe me off and I shall look as good as new. Oh, but I shall feel the pain of it! Though I may not be allowed to perish, I am indeed allowed to suffer pain.” “That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard!” said Brewster with chagrin. “God, you poor kid!” “Well, I thank you for your sympathy,” said Brian, “but sadly, sympathy shall not break this damnable enchantment.” “No, I don’t suppose it will,” said Brewster. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “Frankly, Brian, I just don’t know what I can do. I’ve never encountered anything like this before. I know I promised that I’d try
to help you, but... in all honesty, I don’t know how I can.” “Well, ‘tis grateful I am that you promised to make the attempt,” said Brian.
“Attempt? I wouldn’t even know where to start,” said Brewster. “If real sorcerers couldn’t break the spell, I don’t see how I could. I’m not a sorcerer, I’m merely a scientist.” “Nay, not merely a scientist, Doc,” said Brian. “You must be a very great scientist. Has any other scientist ever succeeded in doing what you have done, whether by accident or by design? Has any sorcerer? Where sorcerers have failed, perhaps a scientist may succeed.” “I wish I had your confidence, kid,” said Brewster sadly.
“You have done things no sorcerer could do,” Brian assured him. “You can use your.. .what did you call it, your method?” “Scientific method,” Brewster said.
“Aye, you can use your scientific method to study thaumaturgy, and thereby divine the secrets of the thaumaturgic arts.” “I don’t know,” said Brewster dubiously. “Wouldn’t it be better if we just got a bunch of sorcerers to put their heads together and see if they couldn’t find a way to-“ “Nay, Doc, nay! ‘Twould be disaster! You must keep away from sorcerers, else ...” Brian’s- voice trailed off. “Else what?” asked Brewster.
The chamberpot remained silent.
“Brian?” A soft sigh came from the pot. “We need each other, Doc. I need you because you may be my last hope to break this enchantment and live a normal life. And you need me because there is much about this world you do not know, and would not understand.” Brewster stared at the chamberpot and frowned. “I’m not sure I understand now. Why should I keep away from sorcerers? Is there something you haven’t told me, Brian?” For a moment there was no reply, and then the pot sighed once again, a strange, tinny sort of sound. “Aye, Doc, there is. Faith, and I do not wish to tell you, for I do not mean to frighten you, and yet, ‘twould be best if you were to know the truth.” “What truth?” asked Brewster uneasily.
“The people here believe you are a mighty sorcerer,” said Brian, “and I fear ‘twould not go well for you if you were to admit the truth.” “Well, I could explain it to them and surely they would-“ “Nay, Doc, you do not understand. You must never tell them the truth. You must never tell anyone. Your very life depends upon it.” “My life?” said Brewster. “Surely, you don’t think they’d kill me?” “Perhaps not,” said Brian. “But ‘tis not the brigands nor the local farmers from whom you have the most to fear. ‘Tis the Guild.” “The Guild?” Brewster frowned.
“Aye, SAG, the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild,” Brian said. “You see, when these people here first met you, they took you for a mighty sorcerer, and in your innocence, you allowed them to believe that. You did not know that there was such a thing as sorcery, nor did you know about the Guild. Had you but known, you never would have allowed them to mistake you for a sorcerer, no matter how hard ‘twould have been to convince them of the truth.” “Somehow, I suddenly have the feeling I’m not going to like this,” Brewster said.
“I fear ‘tis so,” said Brian. “You see. Doc, the Guild is a body of adepts united in a common cause, to govern the practice of sorcery. Its Council of Directors is made up of the most powerful adepts in all the twenty-seven kingdoms, and the Grand Director of the Guild is Warrick Morgannan, called Warrick the White, the most evil, dangerous, and powerful adept of them all. And ‘tis law that all adepts must be members of the Guild, and submit to its authority.” “You mean it’s like a union?” Brewster asked.
“Aye, ‘tis a union of adepts,” said Brian, “all adepts in all the twenty-seven kingdoms. No one may practice sorcery without being a member of the Guild.” “So what are you telling me?” asked Brewster. “I’m a scab?” “ ‘Scab’?” said Brian, puzzled.
“Never mind,” said Brewster. “Go on.” “ ‘Tis a lengthy and most difficult process, becoming an adept,” said Brian. “You must first find an adept willing to take you on as an apprentice, and that adept must be a member of the Guild. As an apprentice, you must serve your master faithfully, and spend your every waking hour in the study of the thaumaturgic arts. Many of its secrets you must discover on your own, and when your master feels that you are ready, the Guild will test you.
“Should you pass the test,” Brian continued, “you will be elected to the Guild and you may then call yourself an adept and practice magic. Should you fail to pass the test, you must either forsake your goal of becoming an adept or remain an apprentice to your master until such time he feels that you can take the test again, though if you fail, ‘tis a bad reflection on your master and odds are you will be punished. You may never be allowed to take the test again, and you may be forced to spend the remainder of your life as an apprentice. Or possibly as something much less pleasant, say a toad or... well, perhaps even a chamberpot. ‘Tis very strict, the Guild is. They are especially strict concerning those whom they allow to call themselves adepts and practice magic. The penalities for pretending to be an adept, or calling yourself a sorcerer if you are not a member of the Guild, are quite severe.” Brewster moistened his lips nervously. “How severe?” “Believe me, you do not wish to know,” said Brian. “I am but a small example of how imaginative an adept can be when he decides to punish someone. And it could have been much worse, you know. Far worse.” Brewster swallowed hard. “I see. Well, all the more reason to clear things up, then. I have enough problems without getting a sorcerers guild mad at me. The sooner I tell everyone the truth, the better.” “Nay, Doc, ‘tis much too late, I fear,” said Brian. “By now, everyone in Brigand’s Roost and all the surrounding farms believes you to be a powerful adept. I doubt they would understand the truth. More likely, ‘twould frighten and confuse them.” “It didn’t frighten or confuse you,” said Brewster.
“I frighten and confuse them,” Brian said. “You saw how they ran. Yet even were they not to become frightened, they would have a hard time believing you. You tried telling the truth to the leprechaun and what was the result? Nor did you tell him the entire truth, for you did not know it at the time. You told him you came from a future age and this only convinced him further of your powers as a sorcerer. What would he think if you told him you came from another world, from another dimension?” “But I was able to explain it all to you,” said Brewster, “even if it did take all night, you finally understood.” “Aye, ‘tis true, perhaps the leprechaun might understand as well, but can you vouch for all the others? Though what you have done here may be science, ‘tis sorcery to all the others and the Guild would look on it as sorcery, as well. Even if you could convince them that science and sorcery are different things, they would see your science as a threat to their own power. And anything that would threaten the power of the Guild is eliminated by the Guild. Quickly, and most decisively.” “Great,” said Brewster with a sour grimace. “So what am I supposed to do?” “You must keep up the pretense, for your own safety,” Brian said. “You must avoid adepts. Tell the others, the brigands and the farmers hereabouts, to say nothing of your presence here to anyone.” “What... what reason should I give?” asked Brewster.
“Tell them you require solitude,” said Brian, “to pursue the perfection of your art. Tell them you have grown weary of towns and cities, with their crowds and ceaseless noise, and that ‘twas your decision to remain here for the peace and quiet of the Redwood Forest. They will understand this, and so respect your wishes. Adepts command respect because adepts are feared. ‘Twould not be safe for you to take away their fear.” “But.. .what about my missing time machine?” asked Brewster. “Unless I find it, I’ll never get home. I can’t just stay here and hope that it turns up somehow. If someone doesn’t bring me word of it, I’m going to have to start looking for it myself.” “Are you certain your time machine is here?” asked Brian.
“It has to be here somewhere,” Brewster replied. “If it’s not... then I’ll never get home.” “Then we must try to find it somehow,” Brian said. “I shall try to think of something.” “Yes, but I’m afraid that’s not going to help
you,” said Brewster with a sigh.
“Perhaps it may,” Brian replied, “if you were to take me with you to your world.” “Take you with me?” “Aye,” said Brian. “You said there is no magic in your world. If that be true, then perhaps the enchantment will not hold there.” Brewster nodded. “Maybe. I suppose that’s possible. Only what if it doesn’t work that way?” “What have I to Lose?” asked Brian.
“You have a point,” said Brewster. “Okay, kid. It’s a deal.” There was a loud knocking at the door. Brewster picked the pot up and tucked it under his arm, then went to open the door. The little peregrine bush came shuffling in, dragging Mick along on its rope leash. It started rubbing its thorny little branches against Brewster’s legs.
“Ouch!” said Brewster, backing away. “Stop that!” The little bush rustled backward a few feet, its branches drooping slightly.
“It seems to have taken a likin’ to you,” Mick said. “Dragged me all the way over here, it did.” He grimaced sourly. “I see you still have the werepot.” “Mick, this is Prince Brian,” Brewster said. “Brian, this is my friend Mick.” He blinked and shook his head. “Look at this, I’m introducing a leprechaun to a chamberpot.” “Greetings, Mick,” said Brian. “I’m sorry I called you Shorty yesterday.” Mick merely grunted and gave a curt nod. “You could accept his apology, you know,” said Brewster, trying to play the peacemaker. “He is a prince, after all, and princes don’t usually apologize, do they?” Mick grunted again. “I accept your apology,” he said. gruffly.
“Thank you,” Brian said.
Mick grunted a third time. “ ‘Tis most civil it’s bein’ this momin’.” “He’s being,” Brewster corrected him. “He is a person, you know. In fact, he really was a person last night. It was a full moon.” “So that part of the legend’s true, then?” Mick said with interest.
