RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer (15 page)

“Put me down, you oaf!” Brewster dropped the chamberpot.

“Ow! Careful, you idiot!” Brewster stared at the pot. It had felt warm to the touch, not like cold metal at all, but more like... like body temperature, he thought irrationally. And when it spoke, it seemed to vibrate slightly.... When it spoke? Come on now, get a grip, he thought to himself. He shook his head, as if to clear it.

“Okay, very funny,” he said with an awkward chuckle. “Now if you’ll all-“ His voice trailed off as he turned back toward the others. Aside from Mick, Shannon, and Bloody Bob, there was no one else in the lab. He heard the sounds of running footsteps receding through the keep.

Bloody Bob had his hand on his new sword. It was difficult to see his eyes behind the homemade prescription visor, but his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Shannon kept glancing uncertainly from Brewster to the chamberpot and back again, her body tense, poised as if she were ready to either strike or flee. Mick stood with his arms folded across his chest, his lips pursed, a thoughtful expression on his face as he gazed at the golden pot.

“It doesn’t look very dangerous to me,” he said. He shrugged. “Sure, and it speaks, but... what can it do?’” “You want I should cleave it in twain. Doc?” asked Bloody Bob, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt.

“Keep that big ox away from me!” the pot cried out.

Bloody Bob’s sword rasped free from its scabbard.

“All right, now stop!” said Brewster.

They looked at him expectantly.

“You don’t really expect me to believe this, do you?” Brewster asked.

“Believe what you like,” said Shannon, stepping forward with a determined expression on her face, “but I’m for prying free those jewels.” “Now hold on there!” Mick said, stepping forward to block her way. “That pot happens to be my property!” “Your property?” she said.

“That’s right,” said Mick. “You found it in that trunk there, which was in my laboratory, I’ll have you know, and that makes it my property!” “You tell her. Shorty,” said the pot.

“Shorty?” Mick said, slowly turning back toward the pot and glaring at it malevolently.

“Step aside, Mick,” Shannon said.

“You stay right where you are, Mick,” said the pot. “That crazy wench is dangerous.” “I still think I should cleave it in twain,” Bloody Bob said, hefting his sword.

“Right, that does it! Everybody out!” shouted Brewster angrily.

They all turned to stare at him.

“I said, ‘out,’ “ He pointed toward the door.

Bloody Bob looked down at the floor sheepishly, then sheathed his sword and shuffled out. Shannon took a deep breath, trying to control her temper, for she wasn’t used to being ordered about like this, but on the other hand, she hadn’t seen this kind of firmness from Brewster before and he was a sorcerer, after all. She gave Mick a hard look, sheathed her dagger, spun on her heel, and stalked out without a word.

“You, too,” said Brewster, looking at Mick.

“But, Doc-“ “Out!” Mick quickly followed the others, leaving Brewster alone in the lab. With the pot.

Brewster took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Damn,” he said to himself. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Brewster? You can’t even take a joke?” He shook his head and sighed. “Hell, I wish I could get back home. This whole thing’s getting on my nerves.” “Try being a chamberpot.” Brewster froze. “What?” “I said, try being a chamberpot. I’ve been locked up in that bloody chest so long, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like not to be caked with dust and having spiders spinning webs around me. You think you have problems?” “All right, this is ridiculous!” said Brewster. He started rushing around the lab, looking under benches and tables and behind shelves. “Come on out! I know you’re in here!” “I’m right here, in front of you, you dolt!” Brewster stared at the chamberpot. There was no one else in the lab. Slowly, he approached the pot.

“Go on, come closer,” said the chamberpot. “I don’t bite, you know.” “This isn’t happening,” said Brewster. “It’s stress, that what it is. I’m under too much stress. Inanimate objects do not talk.” “Very well, have it your way,” said the chamberpot.

“I’ll sing instead. How’s this: “When I was lad, oh, the times that we had, ‘twas nothing that we couldn’t do... But the best times of all, were the times when we’d call on saucy, young Janie McDrew...” “Stop it! Stop it!” Brewster shouted, picking up the chamberpot with both hands and shaking it.

The pot fell silent. “What am I doing?” Brewster said, staring at the pot. He put it down on the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I must be losing my mind!” “There now, ‘tis not madness, never fear,” the pot replied. “I had a bit of a time believing it myself, at first. And if you think ‘tis hard to credit, try looking at it from my point of view.” Brewster swallowed hard, then reached out slowly as if to touch the pot, but drew his hand back at the last instant.

“Go on,” the chamberpot said. “Touch me if you think ‘twould help. I mean no harm.” Brewster reached out tentatively. It was warm to the touch. “Say something else,” he said.

“What would you like me to say?” Brewster pulled his hand back quickly. He moistened his lips. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You really can talk!” “Well now, what do you think we’ve been doing?” asked the pot.

Brewster shook his head with disbelief. “There has to be a rational explanation for this,” he said.

“Very well,” the pot said. “You tell me. Take your time. I’ve nowhere in particular to go.” Brewster sat down heavily on the bench behind the table. “It’s impossible,” he said. “How can this be happening?” “Well, you said you heard the story,” the chamberpot replied. “I understand it’s gotten around a bit. ‘The Legend of Prince Brian the Bold, The Werepot Prince.’ I’ve heard it a few times, myself. Doesn’t portray me in a very flattering light, I fear.” “This is simply astonishing!” said Brewster with awe. “You mean to tell me that story’s actually true?” “No, of course not,” replied the chamberpot wryly. “Everybody knows that chamberpots can’t speak. ‘Tis all a lot of nonsense.” “But... but... there’s no such thing as magic!” Brewster protested.

“There isn’t?” said the chamberpot. “Well, you certainly could have fooled me!” Brewster suddenly remembered what Mick had done outside with the wood splinter only moments earlier.

“Fey magic,” he said to himself. “Mick made that piece of wood burst into flame and called it fey magic!” “Ah, well, ‘tis because he is a leprechaun,” the pot said.

“A leprechaun?’” “Aye,” the chamberpot replied. “One of the little people.

You mean to tell me that you didn’t know?” “One of the little people,” Brewster repeated slowly. “I thought he meant he was a midget! But... a leprechaun?” “Aye, a leprechaun,” the pot said, sounding puzzled.

“What’s a midget?” “Well, a midget is ... oh, now wait a minute! There’s no such thing as leprechauns!” “Aye, and there’s no such thing as magic, and chamberpots don’t speak,” the pot replied. “Tell me, where do you get such peculiar notions?” “All right, now let me get this straight,” said Brewster. “Your name is Brian, and you’re a prince who’s been the victim of a sorcerer’s spell, and Mick isn’t a midget, but a leprechaun who can actually do magic, and I can’t believe I’m sitting here having a conversation with a fucking chamberpot, for crying out loud! Oh, God. I’m either dreaming or having a nervous breakdown!” Brewster put his head in his hands.

“There now, settle down,” the pot said. “You’re getting yourself all worked up.” Brewster raised his head and looked at the pot with amazement. He gave a little snort and got up, shaking his head. “I don’t believe this,” he said to himself. He walked over to the window and looked out, feeling the cool night breeze on his face. There were no campfires outside and it was quiet. Everyone seemed to have left following his outburst. Probably gone back to the Roost, he thought. Makes sense. You don’t want to hang around after you’ve annoyed a sorcerer. He’s liable to turn you into something. Like a chamberpot.

“It’s all a dream,” he said to himself. “It has to be a dream.” “Aye, I said much the same sort of thing, at first,” said the voice of the pot, behind him. Only, somehow, it suddenly sounded different. Brewster turned around and his mouth fell open.

There was a young man sitting on the edge of the table, with one leg casually propped up on the bench, the other dangling. He had long, curly blond hair and blue eyes, attractive features, and a slightly mocking expression around his mouth. He was dressed in tight-fitting striped breeches of brown and black, brown leather boots, a loose-fitting white blouse that laced at the neck, and a short brown velvet jacket and cape. Around his neck was a gold necklace of rubies and sapphires.

“Must be a full moon,” said Prince Brian.

The battlement atop the tower had been turned into a sort of penthouse patio. Brewster had one of the tables brought up, as well as several wooden benches and stools. He had Mick and Bloody Bob bring up a couple of braziers, as they were heavy, and the result was a rather cozy, medieval, outdoor lounge that offered a very nice view.

The full moon was high in the sky and the flames in the braziers gave forth a flickering light as the gentle night wind blew. Prince Brian stood looking out from the battlement at the moonlit meadow below, while Brewster sat smoking his pipe. He had been talking with Brian for several hours and he had smoked five bowlfuls. It usually helped him relax. Usually. Tonight, it wasn’t quite getting the job done.

“ Tis good to feel the cool night breezes on my skin again,” said Brian, breathing in deeply. “I had almost forgotten how it felt to be in my true form.” “How long has it been?” asked Brewster. Brian shook his head. “A long, long time,” he said. “In that dark and dusty chest, days seemed like nights. Seasons passed, countless winters turned to spring. I was unaffected by the moon’s light while locked inside that cursed chest, though I suppose ‘twas fortunate.” “ ‘Twas?” said Brewster. “I mean, it was?” “Can you imagine what would have happened had I regained my true form while still locked within that bloody thing?” “Oh. Yes, I see what you mean. I suppose it would be rather cramped,” said Brewster.

“I do love a moonlit night,” said Brian, taking a deep breath. “On nights such as these, the forces of magic are strong throughout the land. I can walk as a man again. The fairies dance and unicorns go into rut.” “Unicorns?” said Brewster.

“Aye. Pretty little beasts, but foul-smelling and mean-tempered.” “Are they dangerous?” asked Brewster.

“They can be,” Brian replied, “though they tend not to bother men. However, should they see a woman, they will charge her. They don’t like women. Virgins, in particular. They absolutely loathe virgins.” “Really? Why?” “I have no idea. Perhaps ‘tis something about the way they smell to them. Or perhaps because women find them winsome and want to pet and stroke them. ‘Tis believed that if a virgin strokes a unicorn, she will find true love, so each spring, the woods are full of eager virgins, stalking unicorns with carrots and garlands of fresh flowers. We lose a lot of virgins that way.” “Hmmm,” said Brewster. “And you have fairies, too?” “Oh, aye. Lots.” “What are they like?” “Bit like nymphs, really, only much smaller and not as mischievous. About the size of your little finger, most of them. They are especially active in the spring, when the flowers bloom and they can drink the nectar. It makes them quite drunk. They flit about like maddened butterflies, smashing into one another and crashing into trees and such. But they are harmless, and they do not often venture out of the deep woods.” Brewster shook his head. “Amazing. All this time, I had absolutely no idea there were such creatures around. I thought I’d simply traveled back into the past.” He snorted. ‘As if time travel could be simple. But then, compared to what I’ve done, I suppose it is.” “ ‘Tis a very strange place you come from. Doc,” said Brian, turning back to face him. “Your tale strains belief.” “My tale strains belief?” said Brewster. “Right. This from a man who spends most of his time as a bathroom fixture.” “Aye, but then you saw that with your own eyes,” Brian replied. “I have only your word this place you claim to come from has castles that scrape the sky, and horseless chariots that travel faster than the swiftest stallion, and vessels that wing their way through the clouds.” “I suppose it does sound hard to believe, at that,” said Brewster morosely. He sighed. “I should probably be thrilled. I’ve not only succeeded in inventing time travel, but I’ve apparently stumbled onto the secret of interdimensional travel, as well. It’s the only possible explanation. Either that, or I’ve died and gone to some kind of fairy-tale heaven. It’s ironic. The idea of parallel universes has always been nothing more than an amusing theory, a popular theme for science fiction writers, but never something anyone took seriously. Yet, here I am. Except I’m not feeling very excited at the moment.” “You speak words that are unknown to me,” said Brian. “What is a science fiction writer?” “A sort of storyteller,” Brewster said. “One who tells tales that are very clever and fascinating, only no one takes them seriously because they’re not about people in New York or Los Angeles.” “ ‘New York?’ “ Brian said. “ ‘Los Angeles’?” “Cities,” Brewster said absently. “Very large cities, full of people who think that living anywhere else would be uncivilized.” “Ah,” said Brian. “You mean like Pittsburgh.” Brewster looked up at him sharply. “ ‘Pittsburgh’?” “The largest city in Dam,” said Brian. “Named for Pitt the PIunderer, though he was not its founder. He merely plundered it, then decided he liked it and chose to stay on as its ruler. ‘Tis a center for commerce, knowledge, and the arts, where all roads from the twenty-seven kingdoms meet. ‘Tis the most refined city in the land.” “Pittsburgh?” Brewster said, shaking his head with disbelief. “Go figure.” “Aye. ‘Tis where the three rivers meet in confluence,” said Brian. “A grand place, indeed. But what were those other words you said? Para-lel? Inter.. . travel something?” “You mean parallel universes? Interdimensional travel? Hmmm. Well, that’s a bit tougher to explain. I’m not sure how I could put it so that you would understand.” “Try,” said Brian, looking very interested. “Well, okay,” said Brewster, taking a deep breath. “Imagine, if you can, that everything you know to be real, the earth, the sky, the stars, everything, can be contained in a single drop of water.” “Like a raindrop?” Brian said.